Analysis Paralysis
by Betz88
Summary: Wilson's compassionate take on House's serious illness.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note:

If you were captivated, as I was, with KidsNurse's wonderful stories, "Devil You Say" and "Battling the Demons", as I was, then you can figure out the reason I'm writing this one. KN has now started the third story in her series, "The Devil's In the Details". Therefore, I took Dick Dickinson and his old college friend, Jim Wilson, and ran with them. So! KN writes the beautiful medical drama, and I follow along with the thoughts of James Wilson as he suffers for his friend, Gregory House, and what he's going through. I have no clue if this has ever been done before, but it is an education and a great deal of fun … and also a great deal of work for us both. I call them the "Side By Side" stories, and _hope _you all get some fun out of them. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let us know how we're doing …. Thanks. Bets;)

"ANALYSIS PARALYSIS"

Betz88

Chapter 1

"A Cry for Help"

It wasn't about friendship.

They hadn't seen each other for more than five years, and Jim had always kept such a tight schedule, even back then, that he hardly had time to go home to his wife at night. An oncologist's workday, unlike that of a clinical psychologist, did not end at precisely 5:00 P. M.

When the phone call came to his office that Monday morning, Margie had taken it in his outer office and called through the door for him to pick it up. It was personal; someone from New Jersey who wanted her to ask him if he remembered pulling that all-nighter in Joe Ferguson's room for their final exam in Gunderson's anatomy class.

Richard Aubrey Dickinson smiled to himself, pulled his dark-rimmed glasses off his face in amused remembrance and closed his eyes for a moment. He shook his head slightly while old memories of college days flooded back. McGill … close to fifteen years ago. Astounding! He was taking a break between clients this morning, and a chance to catch up with a former classmate would be a welcome change.

_Jimmy!_

Dick picked up the phone in his left hand and said: "Thanks, Marge, I've got it."

Then: "James Evan Wilson! I can't believe it's you after all these years! How in the devil are you?"

"I'm good, Dick. Really good … and you?"

The soft voice Dickinson remembered from their academic years had grown a little harder over the passage of time. "I can't complain," he said. "Even if I did, nobody would listen. What can I possibly do for you, Jim?"

"Well … actually I need a consult. It's important to a case I'm working on and I really need your input. The patient is a very close friend of mine; he won't deal with anybody else but me, and he keeps running me into a brick wall. Will you be around later today? I can drive to your place in a couple of hours if that works for you …"

"If I can be of any help, I'll clear my schedule and give you all the time you need. What time can you be here?"

"Sometime between three and three-thirty, if that's okay."

Dickinson frowned in concentration. Now that he'd listened to Wilson's voice a little more closely, he thought he detected a knife-edge of something not quite right in the well-modulated voice that he hadn't discerned before. It was not a hardness he had heard, precisely, but something more bothersome. His mild-mannered former classmate was frightened! He glanced down at his appointment book. Nothing there that couldn't wait until tomorrow. Or a week from tomorrow.

"I'll be waiting for you."

"That would be great. I'll look forward to it. See you later then."

"Fine. Drive carefully … the Pennsylvania Staties are a bunch of sneaky bastards, so keep an eye out for them. Also, while I'm thinking of it … this is Amish country … so watch out for horses and buggies too. And bikes. They love bikes! Later. Bye."

"'Bye, Dick." Wilson rang off and Dickinson sat on the edge of his desk thinking back on their short conversation. The man sounded worried, and more than a little scared. Dick's training in clinical psychology told him that this was no ordinary case.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck were coming to attention, and he found himself very interested. Jimmy Wilson, calling, out of the blue, from a hundred-or-so miles away just for a consult, was very unusual. Surely there were enough professionals in New Jersey to accommodate Wilson's case without the added bother of traveling to another state. Didn't he say he was treating a close friend? Unethical, to say the least! What wasn't Jim telling him? Dickinson was intrigued.

"Marge?" He called to his receptionist in the outer office.

"Yeah, Dick?" She answered him without hesitation. "What's up?"

"Clear my schedule for this afternoon, will you please. An old classmate of mine needs a consult on a very interesting case …"

He reached up to rub his chin with his right hand, and winced at the stab of pain that flashed through his fingers and then gone.

"Can do, Boss." Her voice floated back to him.

Dickinson rubbed at his wrist with the fingers of his left hand and rode out the jab of pain that turned his right hand into a useless club at the end of his arm. "Thanks."

He moved to his desk chair and pulled open the middle drawer of the desk. He palmed one of the small white tablets from a vial he kept there and let it melt bitterly on his tongue. Baclofen. His bitter angels!

_Dammit!_

_OoooOoooo_

In the elegant, rented Earth-tone dump that Gregory House called his "apartment", James Wilson flipped shut his cell phone and leaned a hip against the heavy butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen.

The call to Richard "Dick" Dickinson had been easier than he'd anticipated. He still felt a little crappy about sneaking behind House's back, but his stubborn, recalcitrant friend was leaving him no choice in the matter.

Wilson had never seen Greg House so ill before, either before or after the infarction, and he had to admit it had him a little rattled. Might House actually try to end his own life? Was he that close to the end of his rope, so-to-speak? Someone with his gifts and overabundant intelligence would make child's play of figuring out a way to quietly slip away even under the most diligent scrutiny if he decided to do such a thing.

Sometimes Wilson thought of his own role in this scenario as that of a Secret Service agent, charged with protecting the life of the President of the United States. If assassins were determined enough, there was not an agency on the planet capable of keeping POTUS alive. If House became despondent enough, he could easily arrange his own demise, and not a thing Wilson or anyone else on Earth could do …

… and he, as both physician and best friend, would then be inconsolable.

He bowed his head sadly, and pinched the bridge of his nose hard with the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

_Christ!_

When he looked up, Lisa Cuddy was standing in the doorway between kitchen and living room looking at him worriedly. "Don't let him see you like this!" She whispered.

He nodded. "I called Dickinson in Pennsylvania," he said, keeping his voice as low as hers. "He'll see me this afternoon, so I have to leave here soon. Will you be okay with him while I'm gone? It'll be awhile …"

She smiled. "I've got my whip and chair ready if he snarls …"

Wilson smiled back in spite of himself, but there was nothing behind the smile except a row of strong, white teeth.

The drive through rural Jersey was a pleasant diversion, and once he passed Trenton, it was almost a straight shot west all the way to Lancaster.

Wilson set the Volvo's cruise control for 70 mph and let the powerful car take him there. In his head, he thought about all the things he needed to tell Dick … _ask_ Dick!

_OoooOoooo_

4


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Meet Dr. Richard Dickinson"

Richard Dickinson sat at his desk deep in concentration. He was twiddling a pencil back and forth between his left hand and right fist as he sat staring down at the scrawl on the pages of a large spiral notebook.

The spasms in his disabled hand had gone now, thanks to his little white pills, and his right hand felt just as normal as his left one. It just didn't quite look the same, and sometimes the skeletal fingers ached with tightness at night. The injury nagged him most of the time, mainly because he was so damned "right-handed", and had never been able (or even willing) to try to train his left hand to take up the slack. This resulted in hand spasms, but they were usually controllable.

In social situations he kept his hand in the appropriate trouser pocket, and usually made it a point to never try to shake hands with anybody. The Japanese habit of bowing from the waist, he'd found, took people's focus away from the hand-shaking thing. It confused them enough that they would usually wonder about his national background, rather than search for a reason why he kept his right hand hidden from sight.

Confusion was better than collusion, right?

When he was seven years old, Dick had fallen off his Flexible Flyer, and his wrist was promptly run over by the kid on the sled right behind him. Broken bones and severed tendons resulted, and an ambulance tied up in traffic at the scene of another accident delayed his trip to the hospital. He was left with all four fingers of his right hand atrophied tightly against his palm. A deep surgical scar near his elbow was the result of an attempt to use transplanted fibrous tissue to restore movement to his fingers. The surgery failed.

Luckily, or so they assured his parents at the time, he had full use of his right thumb. He could still hold a pencil or a pen by shoving one or the other between two of the useless fingers and grasping it with the thumb. He could still turn the pages of a book and use eating utensils, and ultimately scratch an itch if the urge presented itself. Being a seven-year-old kid, Dick quickly adapted to his abrupt change in physical abilities, and learned to live with it in a far more successful manner than his parents ever did.

The main drawback was the fact that the claw-like configuration tended to attract lint!

Now, as an adult, he had long grown sick and tired of explaining the disability to every curious stranger, and so adopted strange habits in order to not have to do so. Some of them were ingenious. He was an expert, for instance, at giving the "thumbs up" sign. His friends simply rolled their eyes and ignored him.

Dick laid the pencil down on the page of the notebook and rose to his feet to pour himself a cup of coffee from the urn behind his desk. He was a meticulous man, small of stature but large of mind. He had a thin face with a narrow nose, slightly humped in the middle; thin lips, black hair and blue eyes. If he'd been a handsome man it might have been a lethal combination, but even those who loved him most had never thought of him as handsome. His dark-rimmed glasses dominated his face, making him appear slightly owlish. That was not a bad thing though, for the combination, when viewed objectively, gave him a look of wisdom, which he had used for years to give his clients and patients a confidence in him far beyond what he felt he deserved. But he figured it didn't hurt to advertise a little, right?

Dick was Jewish, and he kept a decorative Menorah on the ledge directly above the coffee urn. A Star of David was set into the middle of the large ruby ring he wore on his left ring finger in lieu of a wedding band. The ring had been a gift from his life's partner, Ardais Verengi-Degas on their twelfth anniversary. Neither man had ever been less than up-front about their orientation, and though both were psychologists, neither man had ever lost a client due to prejudice against the person they chose to love.

Dick sat down at his desk again with the steaming cup. He drank it black, but he wasn't sure how Jimmy Wilson drank his. It had been a long time since their all-night sessions at college, and he just didn't remember. Besides, Jimmy could help himself.

Oatmeal and raisin cookies were on the sideboard.

Dick studied the chicken scratch in his notebook. There were a few questions he'd have to ask when Jim arrived. Mainly … what made him travel all the way to Pennsylvania for a consultation? Was his patient a notorious inmate of some kind? He wondered.

_OoooOoooo_

6


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Jim Fights the Waterworks"

Mile after mile whistled away beneath the Volvo's Michelin tires, carrying it ever deeper into the fertile Pennsylvania farmland. James Wilson sat easy in the driver's seat, knees splayed, feet relaxed and turned over at the ankles. Two slender fingers of his dominant left hand guided the steering wheel lightly and his right arm lay flat over the tops of the front seats. From the stereo, Sarah Brightman's crystal-clear voice sang softly of bright spring mornings, warm spring evenings and haunted love.

For a time his mind rested quiet in repose, his thoughts flitting here and there as he played his gaze lightly over the landscape outside the wide tinted windshield. Farm after

well-tended farm scrolled by on both sides of the highway, separated only by fields of young spring crops and young corn, not even a foot high, laid out in perfect rows. If nothing else, the Amish communities bred accomplished tillers of the soil, and this particular area of this green state boasted the fact with utter confidence.

Up ahead on the right side of the road and moving against oncoming traffic, Wilson's attention was drawn to a sea of bright colors and an easy cadence of pumping legs and arms. A jogger was alone on the edge of the road, out for an afternoon run, supple limbs joyously undulating beneath the cloudy sky and warm sun. Wilson watched the man raptly as he grew larger, from illusion to reality, and then morphed into high resolution as the Volvo drew closer.

Then he swept past, and Wilson's brain snapped a mental photograph of a slender male body, navy blue jogging shorts, dark Nike Shox with white socks, strange-patterned red tee shirt, disheveled graying hair held in place by a red, white and blue sweat band. And scruff!

With the image burned onto his retinas like a digital photograph, Wilson blinked hard against the haunting illusion.

_House!_

The resemblance was uncanny, and just that quickly his friend was back at the center of his thoughts.

House … healthy and athletic! Jogging along the side of a country road in happy abandon. Not ill, not gaunt and hollow-cheeked. Not dragging an IV and not sprawled on a couch or a bed, too pained and weak to do more than face his tiny world with haunted, bloodshot eyes and an attitude of silent despair.

The tears came before Wilson was even aware of them, and he was thankful he was alone. Out here where no one could see the emotion he'd been so successfully containing for the past God-knew-how-long, he could let it run its course and subside. His eyes were burning and his nasal passages filling up far beyond his control. The sorrow he felt was like the runoff of a stream right after a spring rain. The dam of his long-denied broken heart had burst at the seams and was overflowing far beyond his abilities to drive. Wilson blinked rapidly and looked for the nearest place to pull off the road.

A mile further on, he turned into the lot of a small, isolated convenience store, drove slowly around the back and pulled into the area of little-used parking spaces near the dumpster. With a little luck, he wouldn't be observed here before he could gather his crumpled senses together and go on.

Wilson didn't kill the Volvo's engine. He would need the air conditioning when his internal water works finally dried up. The way he felt now though, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. He pushed the shift post into "park", lifted his right forearm and laid it atop the steering wheel, and bent his forehead to it. Shoulders beginning to shake uncontrollably, he allowed his fear and hurt to overtake him to a point that he might be able to wash it all away and start anew, freshly cleansed.

He had not lost it like this since a week after Julie had walked out of his life. On a Sunday morning he'd stood at the picture window in their empty living room with a cup of coffee in his hand and stared out at the world, unseeing, while tears of guilt and remorse ran down his face and clogged his thoughts with "might-have-beens."

But that moment of silent regret had lasted all of five minutes. With Julie out of sight, she was also out of mind. The marriage had been over a long time before the final breakup.

The image of the roadside jogger still etched itself sharply across Wilson's mindscape, and he could not lose the unrealistic desire of once again seeing Gregory House in the man's place. He shuddered. Greg had been very much like that when they'd first known each other, and his friend's former athletic image had come back with an impact that grasped his very soul and rattled it until it shattered into tiny, jagged slivers at his feet.

He would never see his friend like that again. It hurt.

His tears continued to fall unrelenting, until he could feel in his eyes the tightness and the burning, and his face in the rearview mirror became blotched and mottled.

_Stop this! You're acting like a fool!_

But sometimes the heart, like an unrepentant child, did not listen to the parent mind, and went its own way regardless. The heart was a very strange entity. It ventured into places where the mind often feared to go, and then had to face the consequences of riding roughshod across the vast landscapes of imagination and possibility.

_Oh God …I don't want to go there!_

Wilson took a deep breath and straightened in his seat. He popped open the center console and removed a wad of napkins left over from an excursion he and House had taken to a KFC.

Suddenly, at that moment, he knew the crying jag was almost over. He wiped the moisture from his eyes and remembered that silly day with the surly diagnostician as one of the high points in their friendship. Julie had been gone barely a week. He had moved into House's elegant dump on Baker Street. He hadn't felt like cooking, and House was heaping on the abuse, one snide remark after another until Wilson finally shouted at him, "Enough already!" and they had both burst out laughing like two teen-agers.

They drove to the nearest KFC and brought the food home. They stuffed themselves full of crispy chicken and Coors Light and watched "The Lost Weekend" with Ray Milland on TCM and made profound observations about drunks in general …

After awhile, House had looked over at him with a sad, puppy dog expression and asked if he still missed Julie …

He remembered staring back into that long, droll face and saying, as innocently as he could manage: "Julie who?"

After that, they'd laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Wilson could feel an affectionate smile drifting back into his consciousness, and he let himself ride with it. The sharp photograph of the jogger faded away in his mind, to be replaced with the reality of House as he was now. Not pleasant, but bearable. He could not shore up Greg House and help him bring himself back to life if he couldn't shore himself up first, and bring his attitude and demeanor and overly compassionate feelings back to responsible levels.

_Time to fish or cut bait, Wilson. This isn't finished yet!_

He turned one of the air conditioner vents to the side until it was blowing full into his face. Within two minutes the breach in the floodwall had been repaired and he felt much better for having cleared out all the stagnant, muddy waters. He took another long, deep breath … this one cleansing his soul. He turned the vent back to its normal position and looked around to be sure his way was clear … in more ways than one … dropped the shifter into "drive", and pulled back onto the highway. The wad of napkins lay discarded on the passenger seat as a reminder.

Almost three p.m. He should be at Dick's in another fifteen minutes. He turned up the CD and listened to Sarah Brightman. "Just Show Me How to Love You".

Next stop, Lancaster …

oooo0oooo

10


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Jim Arrives in Lancaster"

Lancaster, Pennsylvania had changed in the days since Wilson had last visited it nearly five years before. He remembered the occasion well. It had been the day of Dick and Ardais' commitment union, and he'd wanted to congratulate the two of them in person on that happy occasion.

Ardais Verengi-Degas, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and a psychology fellow and native to the state of Israel, arrived on campus the middle of their sophomore year. Dick Dickinson met him first when he arrived at the same dormitory at McGill. Wilson, Dickinson and Joe Ferguson had been friends from the day they'd enrolled, but Verengi-Degas ("Dai") fit in well as a fourth Musketeer. He was older than they were by almost four years, and he'd impressed them immediately with his quiet manner and impressive knowledge and innate common sense.

For a time, the four of them palled around like a litter of exuberant puppies; studied together, took meals together, and enjoyed the same downtime activities. Then one day Joe and Jim noticed that the other two seemed to be pairing off more and more, seeking companionship away from the pack and eventually disappearing into a black hole when they were not actually in class. For quite some time, Wilson and Ferguson thought nothing of it. Then, late one Saturday afternoon, Joe walked past a thick stand of pine trees at the edge of the campus and heard two male voices:

"I think I love you …" 

"_I think I love you too."_

There was no mistaking their identities. There was only one Hebrew accent quite that defined on the McGill campus. Montreal accents tended to be a bit "Frenchy". Joe hurried back to the dorm to inform Wilson.

"I think I know where Dai and Dick disappear to in the afternoons …"

"Where?"

The explanation had Wilson wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Wow!" "Yeah, Man … Wow!" 

When Ardais finished his post-graduate studies and returned to Israel, Dick Dickinson said his goodbyes and transferred, bag and baggage, to Tel Aviv-Jaffa.

Now they were back in the USA together. Also together, they purchased an old brick-façade office building, in danger of demolition, in downtown Lancaster, Dick's home- town. They renovated it, and each established a practice in it … one floor apart.

Ardais worked mainly with children and elder-abuse and domestic-violence clients.

Dick worked with everybody else.

They had been together for eighteen years, "unionized" for five!

The first three floors of the old five-story had been given over to state-of-the-art offices for a variety of businesses. The fourth floor contained two luxury apartments. Dick and Dai lived together happily on the fifth floor where, on a clear fall morning, they could see all the way across to the mist rising above the Susquehanna River.

It was into this bustling center of commerce that James Wilson now guided the Volvo, looking for familiar landmarks and trying to remember how far he'd come through town the last time he'd had occasion to drive over here.

State and Grand … a familiar ring there! Both streets were one-way. State Street headed east; Grand Avenue headed south. Following the flow of traffic, he eased into the opposing lane and made a turn onto Grand Avenue.

Two blocks. There it was on the right.

Very old, faded brick, almost like crushed velvet. Fancy hand-painted sign with arc lights above: _"Dickinson and Verengi-Degas". _ So stately! Definitely sandblasted. New window-casings. Vinyl storm windows. Parking meters out front, but an arrow pointed to a rear lot for tenants and clients only.

Jim turned on the right signal and moved gradually across, arcing the steering wheel, and the car's tires clopped softly over the divider and onto the smooth macadam. He found a parking spot, pulled in and killed the engine. Took a deep breath and relaxed, finally.

His head was clear, eyes dry. He hoped, during the next few hours, he could remain that way.

No promises!

Oooo0oooO

11


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Wilson and Dickinson"

The old hardwood of the original building had been preserved throughout the lobby, Wilson noticed. When he'd walked through the glass and stainless steel front door, he felt as though he'd been transported by some fantastic time warp through a gateway into the Nineteenth Century.

Tasteful American Colonial furniture occupied most of the floor space, accompanied by dark mahogany side tables and coffee tables. These, in turn, were laid with stacks of books and magazines, and accompanied by tasteful, antique-looking table lamps. Elegant potted plants, which hung, reclined or lounged in exquisite, serene arrangements, filled in the empty spaces.

Spotless floors were inlaid in a diamond pattern and sanded down to show off the beauty of the antique oak grain, then varnished with a soft patina-like coating, reminiscent of very old bridge decking. The walls were finished with alternating Earth-tone wallpaper and original dark walnut wainscoting. Paintings of elegant horses and youthful riders hung strategically about.

A man and a woman holding an infant sat on one of the settees, and a woman of about sixty leafed through a magazine in a chair a short distance to the left.

Looking up, Wilson saw an elaborate balcony type walkway surrounded by a wrought-iron railing that gave access to another group of professional offices. He could not help being impressed. The remodeling was breathtaking, and he found that his memories of the place the first time he'd seen it, had been remodeled as well.

To his left were heavy oak doors, which led to a dentist's office and an eyeglass emporium. To his right hung an antique sign with a weather-beaten carving of the blindfolded Goddess of Justice. The sign was displayed above a door with a beveled glass pane, denoting: "Leonard & Laurie, Attorneys At Law."

Next to that was a solid mahogany door set into the lighter oak. He had to walk closer in order to read the simple brass plate set near shoulder level into the wood: "Ardais Verengi-Degas, Psychologist. Specializing in Child-Elder-Women. On call 24 hrs. Call 403-9483."

_Wow!_

Wilson endeavored to wipe that "touristy, sight seeing" look off his face, but it was difficult. Spinning around in the opposite direction, he searched for a set of stairs to the second floor and above. All he saw was a pair of what appeared to be pocket doors directly across from him. There was a wall plate beside them, not easily read unless one was standing a foot away. He walked over. Stepped inside.

R. Dickinson, PhD, Psychologist - Group Therapy – 2nd Floor

The pocket doors discreetly hid an elevator! He palmed the plate and a set of digital numbers glowed on the wall. "Two. Three. Four. Five." He pressed the numeral "2" and waited, assuming this action would lead him to the stronghold of Dick Dickinson!

Again, he tried not to be impressed. It was getting harder and harder.

_Wow!_

The machinery meshed smoothly and he rose like a bubble through the water. Suddenly he was standing in an area almost like a mezzanine, looking out over the wrought iron railing he'd had to look up to a few minutes before.

Dick's office was straight across from him and Wilson started toward it. The sense of awe that he'd experienced when he'd walked in, left him abruptly and his thoughts returned in a heartbeat to the real reason he was there.

_House!_

He realized he'd needed every second of the time taken up by his assessment of the regal surroundings. It had allowed his brain to slow down, shift gears and run along in "idle" for a short interval while he combed his emotions of the need for angst and drama. House's illness and present physical dilemma must be discussed in doctor-to-doctor mode as much as possible.

If he were to allow himself to slip back into the concerned-best-friend persona, it would be doing House a disservice, as well as giving off a false veneer of faulty information that would not help his friend, but would mislead Dickinson as well.

Wilson stopped in front of the heavy mahogany door with the bronze plate in the middle:

"R. Dickinson." He drew himself up and took a deep breath, only now realizing the stamina and physical resources of his own that this serious crisis had cost him.

Everything bone in his body that moved … hurt!

Wilson reached up and placed a heavy hand on the achy muscles at the back of his neck, massaging for a moment.

Regrouping his resources and schooling his face to present a pleasant expression, he turned the doorknob and walked into the reception area.

Margie McAllister looked up from her computer desk.

Oooo0oooO

James Wilson was a bundle of nerves. He could feel the shaking from deep within his gut, and he hoped he could pull off this interview in a professional manner. He shifted from foot to foot, lowering his head shyly, even as he pulled the outside door closed behind him.

The woman behind the well-appointed mahogany desk tilted her head toward him in a friendly manner and trained a sympathetic look at his disheveled appearance. "Would you happen to be Jimmy Wilson?" She asked. "I'm Marge."

Wilson nodded and approached her position. "Hi Marge. Uh … yeah … that would be me. Been a long time since anyone who wasn't trying to tease me, called me 'Jimmy'."

She smiled tentatively, obviously unsure what he'd meant by that, but not quite willing to ask. Instead, she pointed a bright red fingernail to a door at the opposite side of the room. "Dick's waiting for you. Told me to tell you to go right on in. Have you eaten?"

Wilson frowned a moment, suddenly realizing that, no, he hadn't. "Ah … no … I didn't take the time."

She nodded. "Okay then. The boss didn't eat anything either, just in case. Tell him I'll call and have something sent in. Any preferences?"

Wilson hesitated, offered one of his self-deprecating "shrug-double-take" combinations and looked at her in a puzzled manner. "I'm … ah … fairly easy to please," he said. "Whatever you decide will be okay with me. Thank you … Marge." He turned slowly, in case the woman wanted to ask him anything else. She had already returned to her computer, so he pushed down on the latch of the inner door and opened it, sticking his head through first.

Dick's office was nothing if not well appointed. The first thing to catch James' eye was the comfortable chaise lounge positioned across a corner with a potted palm behind it and an leather arm chair positioned strategically beside it. He had to smile at the cliché so long associated with the term "psychiatrist's couch", and the silly familiarity with the idea caused him to relax a little and look around.

Large potted plants gave the entire office a distinguished and serene look. Formal wooden shutters, half closed over the front windows, lent a sense of privacy and decorum. Wilson was impressed.

Richard Aubrey "Dick" Dickinson was standing to the left, half smiling, behind an elegant mahogany desk. Directly behind him, a tall mahogany credenza held a silver coffee urn from which emanated the delicious aroma of fresh coffee busily brewing.

Dick looked exactly the same as he'd looked five years ago when Wilson had been here before, shortly after he and Dais had purchased the dilapidated old building. He could not help himself; he grinned ear-to-ear as the man moved toward him with both arms out.

He knew Dick did not do handshakes because of the crippled hand, and Wilson did not hesitate to grab his old friend into a quick, friendly bear hug.

"It's really good to see you, Jimmy Wilson," Dick growled in his deceptively deep voice.

The two of them pulled apart and scrutinized each other from arms' length. "Good to see you too, Richard," Wilson responded. "You look as though life has done very well by you. How's Dais? I see he has a shingle on one of the doors downstairs."

Dickinson smiled. "Dais is Dais … steady as a rock and predictable as the tides. Nothing fazes him, and he is my rudder in life's ocean. We are both very well. And you? How's Julie? Any little Wilsons yet?"

James felt his gaze shifting suddenly to the carpet. "Uh … Julie? We didn't make it, Dick. Julie has moved on in her conquest for a man to hang off her arm and make her look good. I guess I didn't quite fill the bill."

"Damn, Jim … I'm sorry. I thought you two were pretty solid. Anyhow, what matters is that you're here, and I'm really glad to see you. I'd like to hear more about this intriguing case of yours."

Wilson sighed. "It's bothering me a lot more than I ever thought possible, and I really need your advice about which way to go next … and by the way, before I forget it … the lady in the outer office asked me to tell you that she's going to send out for supper in a little while …"

"Ah yes, Margie. The woman is a phenomenon. Couldn't run this practice without her. So anyhow, help yourself to the coffee and cookies and we'll get started on this case of yours."

Dick moved back behind his desk, sat down and reached into the middle drawer; fished out a bottle of prescription medication that looked disturbingly familiar to Wilson, along with a tiny digital recorder which had been handled so often that part of the metallic paint was worn off at the corners. Dickinson set it in the middle of the desk blotter and uncapped the pill bottle. Wilson watched him as he took one of the white tablets with a small glass of water.

James poured a steaming cup of coffee and walked with it back to the opposite side of the desk. He sat down in the comfortable chair there and allowed himself to settle back into its plush depths. "Vicodin?" He asked softly.

Dick looked up and nodded. "Yeah … sometimes I need it to stay focused."

"Is your hand getting worse?"

"Sometimes I think so. Other times, it's fine. I take these … and sometimes Baclofen. Now that I'm older, I seem to have good days and bad days with disturbing regularity. I don't need to be distracted by the nerve pain that seems to spike in my hand sometimes.

"But this isn't about me … I'm fine … it's about you."

Wilson was smiling gently with a teasing sense of déjà vu. Where the hell had he heard _those_ words before? Suddenly he was certain he'd come to the right place.

Dick noticed. "What are you smiling about?"

"Something you just said … it's getting to the point that every time I hear the words 'I'm fine', I jump!"

Dickinson frowned. "Not sure I get it …"

"Oh … I'm sure you will." Wilson made a wry face and shrugged.

"Anything to do with your case?"

"Uh huh, unfortunately. My patient takes Vicodin too. A _lot _of Vicodin!"

"Care to fill me in?"

Wilson took another sip of his coffee and began.

"Okay … but I want you to know this is going to be difficult for me. The man's name is Gregory House. He specializes in diagnostics and nephrology. He's a brilliant and tortured genius, and he's been my best friend for years … although sometimes I think I'm more of a whipping boy than a friend." Wilson sighed and shrugged.

"House is disabled … quite lame. He had a muscle infarction in his right thigh a number of years ago, and the hospital botched not only the diagnosis, but also the surgery. There was serious nerve damage."

Dick drew in a sympathetic breath and frowned at Wilson as a few thoughts came to him simultaneously. "Is he wheelchair bound?"

"No, fortunately. But they had to remove most of the necrotic quadriceps muscle, so he's been left with permanent weakness and chronic pain. He takes Vicodin for the pain, and eats the damned stuff like candy sometimes. But anytime I ask him how he is, I always get the same answer: 'I'm fine!' even though I know he's lying through his teeth. He walks with the aid of a cane. Without it he can't walk ten feet … well … twenty.

"Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm his friend, or his doctor, or if I'm trying to be his conscience. I've ragged him about addiction aspects so often that he just does as he pleases and ignores me whenever I bring it up. He's been having some serious trust issues, and sad to say, I may be part of the problem. I hate seeing him hurting, but I don't know how to help.

"That's why I'm here, Dick. I need your input. I'm trying to get his trust back, but not sure if I'm doing it right. I've caused enough damage and I don't want to cause more."

Dickinson considered. Jim wasn't telling him everything. There was more beneath the surface here than met the eye. The stricken look on Wilson's face was hiding a plethora of emotions he seemed unwilling, or unable to face. Either Wilson's conscience was nagging him deeply enough that it was forcing him to consider reversing his former actions, or something still unspoken was waiting for him shore up the courage to speak of it. In either case, Dick was willing to wait his friend out.

"Okay … we'll talk about it in a minute … but just for my own curiosity: how come you traveled all the way to Pennsylvania to talk to me? Aren't there any psychologists in Princeton? Or is this Gregory House hiding out from the law?"

Wilson was beginning to relax a little. Perhaps it wasn't going to be as hard to discuss House's difficult case as he'd originally thought it would be. Dick had just the right combination of seriousness and humor to weigh everything he had to say with the right balance of professional interest and compassion.

James sipped again at the steaming coffee in his hands and thought for a moment. The warmth emanating from the large ceramic cup was reassuring.

"Well, he's not 'hiding out', exactly, although it might be debatable in some aspects. He's a unique individual. An enigma. He's the burr under my saddle and the fly in my soup. But he is brilliant and gifted and quite famous in a strange sort of way. He's also been very ill and in constant pain for a long time, and many of his colleagues, including me, unfortunately, have gone so far as to call him a liar."

"Sounds intriguing," Dick admitted. "Are you ready to get started? I'm going to record us so we'll have a voice file and a printed transcription later. That way you'll be able to reference it, and so will I if need be. After Margie and I finish with it, I can send you either the voice file or a transcript … or both. Shouldn't be more than a couple of days. Okay with you?"

Wilson nodded. "Certainly. I'm ready whenever you are."

Dickinson reached toward the tiny digital recorder, looked across at Wilson, received a small nod, and flipped the "on" switch.

The little wheels began to turn slowly …

Oooo0oooO

21


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"The Session in Dick's Office"

Dickinson looked up to see if Wilson knew the recorder was running.

Wilson nodded. He did.

Dick began:

"Monday, May 22.

Richard Dickinson, Dr. James Wilson … case file GAH-61159-W-228 …

"James …You are concerned about your patient, Gregory House: How do you feel about what has occurred?"

Across from him, Wilson squirmed in the chair. His blue jeans made rustling sounds on the upholstery, which would be audible on the sensitive recording later on. Dick let it go. Wilson's eyes circled the room and came back to rest on the little recorder in the center of the desktop. "Why does that matter?"

"It matters," Dickinson stressed, "because I don't think you'd be here if it hadn't affected _you_ in some significant way."

Jimmy met his gaze for an instant and then flitted his eyes quickly to the side. Already he was nervous, afraid of breaking a confidence, of giving too much of himself away too soon. "The way it affected me isn't important. What I did to House … that's what's important, that's why I'm here."

"Okay," Dick continued gently, "then tell me what you did to Dr. House."

James swallowed. His brow furrowed. He was already beginning to regret this line of questioning. "I didn't … I allowed … I … I betrayed his trust. I let my own fear of his physical pain control how I reacted to it … to _him_. It was easier to fall back on prevailing medical beliefs … _wrong _beliefs … than it was to watch him hurt. So I convinced myself that he didn't hurt … that he was just … an addict. If the pain wasn't real, then I didn't need to worry about him, to hurt for him.

"If I … if I'd allowed myself to believe that his pain was real, it would've … I pulled back. I did what I had to do to protect myself. And he … he suffered for it …"

Dick watched his friend with compassion, wondering what was going on here. He'd stuffed a stick pen between two of the atrophied fingers of his right hand and grasped it tightly with the thumb. He was taking notes furiously in a spiral notebook that lay on the desk before him. He needed something concrete to refer to, not just voice tones on a small recorder.

"And not wanting to watch someone we care about suffer is a natural reaction."

"But I'm not just his friend, I'm a doctor; I should have helped him. I didn't." Wilson's voice was shaking. His deeply felt self-recrimination was working hard on him.

Dickinson looked up from his writing. "Yes." He said. "You _did_!"

Wilson's eyes were beseeching. "You don't get it! I watched him suffer for _months_ before I did anything. I _watched_ him, and I was angry with him, and I pitied him. I thought he was weak, and I convinced myself I was helpinghim by denying him pain relief. All I did was … I'm the … I'm responsible for his turning to morphine, for the breakthrough pain getting so out of hand that we had to …"

Dickinson hitched a surprised breath.

_Morphine? The man shot himself up with morphine?_

Wilson looked ready to weep. My God! What a burden he was carrying!

"Let me get you some water. This is hard; take your time." He dropped the pen and the tablet and went to an insulated pitcher beside the coffee urn. Poured a small glass of ice water and carried it across. Handed it wordlessly to Wilson and then resumed his seat. All the chinks and clanks of non-vocal physical activity were spiking the electronic tracking of the recorder. The red light on the dial was blinking furiously, as though searching for voices where there were none. Dick stared at it with quiet amusement.

"Thanks. That's … better. I'm okay. Sorry. I didn't mean … this isn't supposed to be about me."

Dick disregarded the unconscious bid for sympathy and went on gently. Wilson's sense of guilt was weighing heavily on his shoulders. "Why did you decide to help him? When did you begin to believe the pain was real?"

"It was Friday. House is … well, he likes to complain, and he even makes a show of taking the Vicodin, and he's been known to … (soft laughter) umm … well, actually, to terrorize people with that cane. (more subdued laughter). But one thing he never allows himself to do is show his discomfort to others. Even with me, he'll gripe, he'll get dramatic. But I've rarely seen evidence that the pain was real.

"Twice. Maybe three times in the last six months … and he didn't have a choice. But Friday he collapsed in front of his team. Dick, no exaggeration, House'd rather die than show physical weakness in front of those kids!

"So, when they paged me, and I found him on the floor of his office, with the three of them there … I knew. I … just knew, then. Couldn't deny it anymore; didn't even try. I gave him that first dose of morphine without even questioning the necessity. His need was just so clear …"

Wilson's eyes were red now, and Dick could see him beginning to lose it. "May I have some more water?"

Dickinson nodded. "Of course." He hurried to comply. Handed it across and watched as Jimmy gulped it greedily in the effort to control his runaway emotions. Dick needed to keep the man talking. "So … Friday was the first time that the validity of his pain wasn't in question? The severity of it, I mean."

Wilson nodded. He leaned across to place his coffee cup, still half full, on the desk, then shifted back and finished the rest of the water. "Yes … uh, no. There were … two other incidents."

Dick saw the pain that filled the other man's dark eyes, so he leaned back quietly for the thirty seconds it took for Wilson to gather himself and resume speaking.

"I was at his apartment one evening a couple of months ago. He'd been at the piano for quite awhile. I was getting ready to leave, and he stood up and his leg began to spasm. I thought at first that … it wasn't real; I'd refused to refill his Vicodin prescription earlier. The refill would have been only three days early, but … I thought … well, I was trying, I guess, to establish some … boundaries … on the whole narcotics thing, and …"

This time, Wilson's silence stretched out so long that Dick was beginning to become concerned.

This man, House, is a musician as well as a colleague? They were at House's apartment? Doctor? Best friend? There's something deeper emerging here … 

Quietly, Dick urged Wilson: "Go on …"

"Then I saw his eyes, and I knew the pain was real. I went to him and tried to get him to sit. He was angry, and he was scared, I think …

"Finally I had to force him to sit down. I checked his pulse and it was over 100, which confirmed medically that the pain was real. He would have told me to leave at that point, if he'd been able to. I know that. But I knew he was in far too much pain to make any sort of protest, so I took advantage of that to help him. I massaged the leg until the spasm relaxed. He'd never have allowed that if he'd been in any shape to stop me.

"It … hurt, to know that he was suffering that much, and that I'd initially thought he'd been trying to trick me."

Another long silence stretched out. Dickinson was ready to pause the recording while Wilson gathered himself, but Jimmy looked up into his face with agony in his eyes.

Dick withdrew his hand. "You felt guilty." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah … and sorry too." Wilson pulled himself together and expelled his breath with a whoosh that billowed his cheeks. "But I couldn't make myself say that to him. So after the spasm ended, I sat there that night and watched him while he slept. I wanted him to know I cared. But I couldn't say those words either. And every time he moaned during the night, it got a little harder for me to deny that he'd really been suffering. But instead of trying to discuss it with him, figure out how I could _really_ help, I … just wrote out the scrip …

"And we never spoke of what had happened."

Dick raised his eyebrows. Wilson was shoring up, willing to continue. He took full advantage of the opportunity.

"And the second incident?"

Jimmy was beginning to look bleak again. "It was … even worse …" His voice broke like a piece of tinder wood on the last word. The red light on the recorder spiked brightly.

Dick took a deep breath and paused a moment. This second incident, pulled suddenly from the depths of Wilson's suppressed memories, was threatening to overwhelm his old friend far beyond the difficult events they'd talked about up to now.

"James, I'm sorry … but I could really use a break here … and some coffee." He snapped off the little recorder and smiled encouragingly. "You're doing fine. I'm becoming aware that this is difficult beyond measure for you. How about it we have another coffee and check with Margie to see if there's any food being delivered to our doorstep …"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. Let's just talk about something else awhile … if you have the time. I didn't realize what those memories were going to do to me … and yeah … I'm really starting to get hungry."

Dick pressed the intercom on his office phone and the woman in the outer office answered immediately. "What's up, Boss?"

"We're hungry, Marge!" Dick said sternly, then grinned and answered Wilson's question.

"Of course I have the time! For you, Jimmy Wilson, I'd make the time anyway. This case is far too important to be ignored any longer, and it's not helping you to repress it."

Margie's voice came back on the intercom while he was still speaking. "You gentlemen up for a big pan of lasagna? Side salad? Cherry pie? Dais is out here with your lunch!"

Wilson looked up, suddenly smiling. "Ardais!" He said. "Ardais cooked for us?"

"Yes he did," Dick said. "I told him you were coming here, and he wanted to see you." They both rose as the door to the outer office opened wide.

Poised in the entrance stood a tall, dark, curly haired man with large teeth filling up an equally large smile. He was in brown slacks, blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a fancy flowered apron tied neatly about his slender waist. Ardais Verengi-Degas' huge eyes were sparkling with intelligence and humor. In spite of himself, James Wilson could feel himself grinning, hurrying forward to take the large tray of food from the man's hands to set it on the desk.

The men embraced fondly while Dick Dickinson perched a hip on the desktop and smiled at Jimmy's surprise and delight. Ardais pulled back from the bear hug and surveyed Wilson's light blue shirt, also rolled to the elbows, his blue jeans and deck shoes with no socks. "Still got that 'preppy' thing going for you, eh, Jimmy?" Ardais said teasingly.

Wilson looked down at himself and pursed his lips. "Old habits die hard, Dais!"

"I can see that."

They spent a half hour over the delicious meal, catching up with each other and talking about college days and shared dormitory nights cracking the books and swilling beer and chomping beer pretzels and Slim Jims.

When Ardais left awhile later, Wilson had begun to feel almost human again, renewed by the comfortable old friendship and a little jealous of the loving rapport so easily shared by the two longtime partners.

When the session picked up again and Dick's thumb pressed the "record" button, the world changed back to the stark reality of Gregory House's pain-filled world, and Wilson's urgent attempt to fit himself into it with him.

Dick Dickinson began again in his no-nonsense fashion.

"Okay … when we paused, Jimmy, you were going to tell me about the second time you questioned your own belief that Dr. House was … uh … exaggerating his pain."

Wilson cringed in remembrance. "I … this is hard. Do we have to discuss this one?"

Dick stared at him, and Wilson was surprised at his reply. "No; of course we don't. But you brought it up, and it's bothering you. It might help to …"

"You're right," Wilson admitted. "It's … yeah, it's important. I … it's just … I'm uh … ashamed that this happened, I guess.

"It was just last month, and I'd stayed late at the hospital. Didn't know that House was still there too. I was leaving, walking past his office, and a movement caught my eye.

"He'd drawn the blinds, but they weren't completely closed, and he had his back to me, so he didn't know I was there, and … he'd put his cane down, and was trying to walk without it, and he … fell … twice. The second time, he just stayed down.

"And he leaned his head against the edge of the chair, and he was … crying. He might have seen me then, but he was so consumed by his pain, I don't think he was aware of his surroundings.

"And … I … walked away. Just pretended it never happened. Called him later, and he sounded okay.

"I was able to forget what I'd seen … until Friday. When I got the page about his collapse … as I was running to his office, that scene just kept replaying itself, in my mind. And now I see it as another missed opportunity to prevent what happened Friday."

Dickinson's voice was soft. He could feel Jimmy's hurt deep within his own gut. God! No wonder the man was screwed up about this …

"And you can't let it go."

"I don't _want_ to let it go! I want to _remember_ what my denial did to my best friend, to the man I think of as my brother. And now, he's just getting to the point of being able to trust me again, and maybe even to trust a friend of ours … our boss.

"But this morning he just missed hypovolemic shock. And I mean by _minutes_. Know why? He didn't want me to know he's been nauseated; he was afraid I'd cut the dose on his pain meds, was afraid I'd insist on an anti-emetic.

"He's trying, I really think he is, but he's not there yet. We need to figure out a way to get 'im there, fast, before his distrust kills him!"

Dick frowned. "Would he be willing to come in and see me?"

Sardonic laughter from Wilson made him rethink quickly. "I'll take that as a 'hell no!'"

"I'll spare you the eminent Dr. Gregory House's opinion of psychology as a profession, but it's right up there with his opinion of snake-oil salesmen!"

"Then this is what I'd suggest." Dick was beginning to sense the cold, hard facts about Wilson's stubborn patient, and about the real reason Wilson had traveled all the way to Pennsylvania from central New Jersey.

"Based on what you've told me, no one else is gonna be able to help him. No one else will be able to help him because he won't allow it. It isn't a myth; there are a few people out there who can't be helped by conventional therapy. But that doesn't mean that they … that _he_ … can't be helped at all.

"Dr. House is luckier than most. He's got someone willing to take the time, do the work. That would be you. And the unusual thing about this situation, Jimmy boy, is that you're uniquely qualified. Even someone in Dr. House's predicament is fortunate enough to have a friend or family member willing to participate fully; the background and education usually aren't enough. In your case, that isn't a problem. And you have the added benefit of being able to see his physical issues as well."

Wilson sighed deeply, half afraid Dick wasn't seeing the point. "But that's part of the problem … a huge part. I told you what happened this morning; he could have died, simply because he couldn't bring himself to trust me. So now I'm gonna be his surrogate shrink? That oughta tear it for sure!"

"James!" Dickinson admonished. "You know better than that. It isn't _you_ he doesn't trust … it's himself. You pointed out to me that he's still stuck in the denial stage of grief over the infarction. Add in his natural tendency toward depression … which I suspect was present even _before_ the infarct … and you've got a man who can't _allow _ himself to admit that he needs help. Because, once he acknowledges it to himself, he's gotta also admit to his limitations. And he may never be ready to do that.

"As a matter of fact, from the way you've described him to me, it may be healthier for him in the long run not to ever acknowledge those limitations."

Wilson stared at Dickinson for long moments before he realized his mouth was hanging open. He began to understand fully, for the first time, and he felt a rush of compassion for House. He also felt a small lift from his burdened shoulders, of the guilt he'd been carrying for so long.

House could _not_ accept help. Nothing Wilson had already tried to do could have been done any better, or with any more love. The results would have been the same. Wilson finally understood that House's behavior wasn't controlled by House … but by an unconscious denial of his own circumstances.

Dickinson was staring at his friend with a kindly understanding that Wilson found hard to accept. "Don't forget what we all learned in Psych 101 … tragedy tends to bring out the best and the worst characteristics in people. When the tragedy becomes chronic, those characteristics are magnified over time.

"So, if House has always been loathe to rely on others, now it becomes an overriding force in his life, in his attitude toward both his illness and toward the people who want to help him.

"_He's literally programmed to fight you!"_

The newfound feeling of compassion toward House was threatening to overwhelm Wilson. He looked up at Dick with the beginnings of hope on his handsome face. "So he's not responsible for his behavior?"

"Afraid not." Dickinson's mouth twisted in a rueful, sympathetic smile. "No more responsible than your average preschooler who's heard the word 'no' too many times."

Wilson sat still, silent and lost in his own thoughts for a moment:

_So Cuddy's spot-on with her assessment of House's personality. "Nanny 911" isn't too far from the truth! Viewing that big jerk as a child will make it easier to be patient though. Not just to give in and kill him! Wait'll I tell Cuddy she's had the right idea all along! She enjoys being right almost as much as House does!_

"Is there anyone else he's close to?" Dick asked, quickly breaking Wilson's bubble of retrospect. "Somebody who can share this … burden … with you? It's gonna get pretty rough …"

Wilson knew the answer, but he gave it long thought before he replied. "Lisa Cuddy … our boss, Dean of Medicine at PPTH. She's with him right now. They have a … complex … relationship. But I think it's been changing in a positive way over the past few days. I think he's starting to trust her, at least as much as he can trust anyone.

"His parents … but they're distant. Both geographically and emotionally." Wilson wished House's Dad had not pushed his son's perfectionism and the attendant depression. But that was a long time ago.

And Stacy. He had loved her, and then blamed her for everything that happened to him the last six years. Wilson had to admit, sadly, that the only people House could really count on were Cuddy and himself.

"So you're not going to try this single-handedly? This Dr. Cuddy will support you?"

Wilson didn't hesitate. "She will! Every step of the way!"

Dick thought for a moment. "Since there's just the two of you, and since I think the bulk of the burden will fall on you, despite Dr. Cuddy's support, I'd like to suggest you go out and buy yourself a punching bag!" There was a twinkle in his eye and in his voice as he said it.

At Wilson's small laugh, he continued. "I'm not joking, Jimmy! You don't understand how rough this is gonna get, having to watch … having to allow … an adult to essentially react to his life like a peeved four-year-old. You'll need an outlet … I mean it!"

"I can handle it, Dick. It's a relief to know that he's not just the selfish bastard the rest of the world sees. I know the man I described to you sounds … sad and sick, not anybody you'd want to know. But there's _so_ much more to him! He's brilliant and _funny_ … and I dunno … it's just an honor to be allowed into his world.

"I can't explain it. You'd have to meet him and look past the walls he puts up. Then you'd see why he's really worth it. When he let me put him through the pain-control procedure, even after what's gone on, it was … it made me feel _good_, like I was somehow worthy of his friendship …"

Listening closely as Wilson continued, Dickinson began to perceive … _something_ … deep in Jimmy's eyes when he talked about Gregory House …

"That's another thing we need to talk about, Jim … the loss of that extra pain. It's going to be part of the problem, believe it or not. You've said he's integrated the pain into a big part of his personality, his behavior. That means a big part of his perception of himself disappeared when the pain left. And whenever your self-view changes, there's a period of grieving attached, even if the event itself is a positive one.

"He's going to find it disconcerting at the least, and deeply disturbing at the worst, to have such a big part of his identity gone. And that'll result in more anger, more lashing out, while he tries to come to terms with this shift in self-perception. It shouldn't last more than a month or so, but it could be a very nasty time."

Wilson shifted in the chair nervously, and stared hard at the chaise lounge across the room. He hadn't considered that getting rid of the breakthrough pain cycles could have any sort of negative impact at all. "How can I help him through that?"

"I think you're already doing that by instinct," Dick said. Just _be _there for him! Let him lash out at you if he needs to! That'll be his way of working through his own confusion. The 'attacks' on you aren't really attacks; I think what he's really doing is analyzing the changes in his life in a way that has, historically, made him feel safest.

"He sees you as a secure sounding board, and that's what he needs most right now. It'll only become a problem if he denies, to himself, that things have changed."

Jim Wilson took a deep, deep breath. He looked across at his friend and noticed that Dick was looking at him with an amused and mysterious expression of sympathetic understanding on his face. Wilson frowned for a moment, wondering what the look might mean. Whatever it was, it was making the hackles at the back of his neck stand up like the toilet seats in the physicians' locker room. He decided to ignore it for now, and maybe think about it on the drive back to New Jersey.

_That … and a few dozen other things!_

"Dick, I've been here almost two hours now. You haven't called out the little white-coated men with the nets yet … for House _or_ for me. So, I'm thinking maybe I should mention one more … mmm . concern."

Dick waited patiently, fully knowing, just like House, that the biggest concern tended to pop up at the end of the appointment.

_Okay … sorry, House … gotta do this, buddy … but I'm not gonna lose you now!_

"I think that House may have a suicide plan." Wilson looked directly at Dick, and the psychologist could see the racing of emotions, the fear and the desperate plea for reassurance in the dark eyes.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least," he replied gently. At the surprise on Wilson's face, he continued. "In my experience, at least half of all chronic pain sufferers have a plan. And that plan is often the very thing that prevents them from becoming acutely suicidal.

"Just knowing he has his 'out' gives him the comfort he needs to get through the rough spots. He's really at less risk of suicide than somebody who's less organized, more impulsive."

Wilson allowed himself a relieved sigh that came from deep within his soul. "I was so … worried …"

"Understandable. And I'm not saying you shouldn't watch for signs; I'm just saying that at this point, it's likely that he's no more at risk for suicide than you are. More of a problem, I think, is keeping tabs on his physical condition. It sounds like that's what's putting his life far more at risk.

"You're the physician here, but I'd suggest simply explaining to him that you know it's hard for him to speak up when something's bothering him. Tell him you're going to be monitoring him closely for your _own_ peace of mind. Take the pressure off him … that often has an interesting result … and he may become more willing to be truthful with you."

Wilson blinked at the thought. "That _would_ be interesting," he said with a smile. He shifted in the chair again and prepared to stand up.

"I think I've taken up enough of your time, Dick. I'm anxious to get back and see if House and Cuddy have killed each other yet."

They both smiled at the thought, and Wilson cocked his head as another idea suddenly occurred. "Let me ask you something … do you still play such a mean game of poker?"

Dickinson grinned in reply. "Oh yeah! I can still make you wish you'd left your wallet at home. Why?"

"Well, how's this … ? … we give House a few weeks to recover, and let me slip your name into a few conversations with him. And then you're invited to a poker game you'll never forget. You and Ardais. If I remember correctly, he's a pretty sharp cookie with a handful of cards too."

_Wonder what nicknames House'll christen these two with???_

"Sounds good, Jimmy. I'm looking forward to meeting Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy too, maybe. And it was really great getting to see you again … even if the circumstances were less than stellar. With a little luck, things should improve greatly now."

Dick pried a business card from a stack on his desk and handed it across to Wilson. "Our home number is on there … and you can call anytime if things get a little too rough. Questions … problems … or if you just need to vent. Okay?"

James took the card, studied it, and then put it in his shirt pocket. "Thanks, Dick. I can't tell you how much I appreciated this." He reached out with his left hand and Dickinson hesitated only a moment before reaching out with his own left, and grasped Jim's in a clasp of comradeship.

"One more question, Jim … what are _you_ getting out of this?"

Wilson looked puzzled for a moment. "Well, I hope House will be able to acc …"

"No, that's not what I asked. I know what benefits you hope _he'll_ get. What I want to know is … what's in this for you?"

Wilson blinked. Dick had caught him waffling again. "This time," he said quietly, "I don't have to lose a brother …"

_And this time the Demons won't win!_

Wilson left the beautiful old office building and headed to his car. He felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. At the same time, and in a more abstract manner, Dick's attitude and questioning demeanor as he'd asked some of his penetrating questions, came back to haunt Wilson greatly. A few times the expression on his old friend's face had seemed almost pitying, and it was disturbing in a puzzling way.

What wasn't he getting?

Oooo0oooO

30


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"The Long Ride Home"

The sun was sinking rapidly behind him as James Wilson pulled away from Lancaster, Pennsylvania and headed east toward New Jersey. By the time he made it back to House's place, it would be well into dusk, and depending on traffic, perhaps dark as well.

He turned the radio low to an easy listening station and settled himself into the most comfortable position in the seat. By the time he'd reached the highway and set the cruise control, however, the stiffness that had been settling into his bones all day, was beginning to clamor for attention.

He rotated his head and rolled his shoulders, but the discomfort seemed to have him in a vise and wouldn't let go. He sighed, wishing he had some aspirin or something to ease it, but he knew there was nothing in the car or in his sport jacket or in his jeans pockets. He gritted his teeth and kept on going.

Why he should be feeling so crappy now, after the catharsis in Dick's off ice, he had no idea. The feeling had been building to a crescendo ever since he'd pulled out of the parking lot. It was now sweeping over him like a tidal wave in his muscles and nerve endings and reminding him that the ongoing hassle wasn't over yet. In many ways he couldn't even fathom, it was just beginning.

As though he _needed_ to be reminded!

He wondered what he would find when he got back to Princeton. His weary mind kept drawing doodles on the backs of his retinas … silly cartoon likenesses of House, sitting on the couch like a frog on a lily pad, cane in one hand, IV in the other, face skewed into a sculptured glare of rock-hard stubbornness. The UPN Frog … spats and top hat … tap-dancing his way into history …

And Cuddy standing before him with arms crossed, toe tapping in her stiletto heels, hair frazzled and sticking out all over with one lock hanging down the middle of her face and an equally obstinate glare emanating from her dark-blue-ocean eyes. Charlie Brown's indomitable Lucy, thirty years in the future!

Wilson could picture the sparks shooting back and forth between them like Comanche arrows; the irresistible force versus the immovable object, locked in mortal combat until the end of time, neither one giving an inch.

It was so silly he had to laugh.

He came to the place in the road where the little convenience store broke the idyllic flow of the Amish countryside, and in whose back lot he had shed tears for the one person in the world he did not know if he could live without.

Wilson pumped the brakes and slowed down to pull in, this time to the lot in front.

He did not need gas. The Volvo still had three-quarters of a tank. But now would be a good time to walk around and stretch his legs, grab a soda and some chips, and maybe a small container of aspirin or Tylenol to combat the muscle ache.

He circumvented a few straggling groups of boisterous teenagers gathered near the corner of the building. They were all smoking cigarettes, boys in strategically torn jeans feeling up the giggling girls' buttocks and conversing loudly in language laced with profanity.

Big men! 

Wilson guessed Amish country was not that much different from anywhere else in the USA these days. Children … indulged and insolent … unsupervised and old before their time!

He got back into the Volvo and pulled onto the road, eager to leave the noisy gaggle behind. He had a bottle of water, a bag of potato chips … and he thought with a smile of all the times House had stolen handfuls of chips off his lunch plate … and a small green bottle of Excedrin. He took three of the pills and tipped back the water bottle. He tore open the potato chips and popped a few into his mouth.

Wilson felt a tug of sadness when he passed the spot where he'd seen the jogger at the side of the road, and his thoughts returned immediately to his best friend. Upcoming weeks would be a test of stamina for them both after today, and Dick's words of wisdom came back again and again:

"_He's literally programmed to fight you!"_

Wilson had no illusions when he thought about House's determination to fight. The man had always taken particular delight in verbose personal combat, even back in the days before he ended up disabled and hurting. He had always reveled in getting his digs in with Wilson in ways that fed his monster ego and made Wilson roll his eyes in exasperation. And Wilson usually pulled his punches a little and played directly into House's manipulative hands. He had never taken steps to hold House back, and he had no intention of beginning to do so now.

House had a cruel streak in him that he couldn't seem to curb sometimes. But Wilson understood that the cruelty was a coping mechanism for the pain, and was more than compensated for by the earnest and subtle kindnesses that House was capable of offering when the two of them were together in private.

Greg was a living bundle of contradictions, and the constant fluctuations that propelled his exquisite mind kept Wilson coming back for more. In this regard he was an addict himself, drawn inexplicably by the intriguing prospect of wonders that might burst forth the next time from that radiant brain … and the next …

The "pain" part of House's life was going to come into question now, however. Wilson surmised the pain issue would be decidedly diminished, probably to the extent that House would have to find other excuses to explain his snide remarks and belligerent attitude. That should prove to be damned interesting. And entertaining. He could hardly wait!

One thing that wouldn't go away, Wilson knew, was the weakness in his bum leg that Gregory House would still have to deal with. The hole in his right thigh looked like the Arizona meteor crater in miniature, and there was nothing short of divine intervention that would make him any less crippled.

Some things House would find himself becoming more aware of with the diminishing of the leg pain: the stresses he'd always placed on his wrist, arm and shoulder muscles, and the huge amount of compensatory damage that had been inflicted upon the healthy leg.

These considerations had been secondary up until now, but they would leap to the fore like starving jungle cats from here on out. Wilson wondered if the reduction in pain would be worth the cost. It seemed that there were added consequences to be faced for every positive step along the way.

If House thought his path had been difficult before … he hadn't seen anything yet!

Wilson sighed as the radio played: _"Blue Moon"_ … and he could feel his emotions coming to the surface yet again.

_What the hell IS it about this man that makes me feel like this?_

_Oooo0oooO_

As the layers of twilight deepened over the countryside, and Pennsylvania gave way to Jersey flatland, Wilson reached down and pulled his headlights on. The Volvo was a tad too old to be equipped with the safety lights that stayed lit all the time. He finished the last of the chips and crumpled the bag.

He was also tired of sad songs, and he pressed the control that brought up an NPR station playing symphonies. The lilt of violins and flutes and French horns was much more appealing right now than moonlight laments about lost loves and broken dreams.

The three Excedrin had eased his muscular aches a bit, but he knew he would still feel the after effects tomorrow, and probably even on Wednesday. It couldn't be helped. When House was once again able to stride down the corridors of the hospital with nominal pain and a diminished limp, he would never remember his own temporary discomfort.

Wilson smiled to himself and drove on toward home, passing opposing traffic with their headlights blinking on, and suddenly feeling tears sting his eyes again.

"_Stop this!" _He was stunned he'd said it aloud. Shouted it, in fact.

There were no parking spaces in front of House's place when Wilson finally turned onto the familiar street and trolled past the old building.

The apartment's interior was dim, but not dark. Cuddy's elegant Buick sedan was there in front, right where it should be, and Wilson could see the ambient glow from the television casting fluctuating shadows across the front window.

At least the place was still standing, and no one had bombed it or shot it up with an Uzi, or burned it down in a fit of pique. Which meant that the apartment at 221B was still intact, and a cease-fire was in force, or there had been a coup d'etat, and one resident or the other was holding the opposite member hostage and forcing him/her to watch reruns of "The L Word" … or the House and Garden Channel!

Wilson was more tired than he had thought.

He finally found a parking space a half-block away and pulled in, shut off the lights and radio and shut down the engine.

Wilson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the business card his friend Dr. Dickinson had given him earlier.

"… you can call anytime if things get a little too rough. Questions. Problems. Or if you just need to vent. Okay?"

Wilson sighed. He put the card back in his pocket and hoped he would not have to call for help because he could not handle the sea change that was coming into the life of his best friend. A punching bag might not be a bad idea! He could put it in House's basement Rec Room, right next to the Skittles table.

Tiredly, he leaned his head against the backrest and stretched out both arms. It had been a long day, and he still had to check with Cuddy about House's condition, double check his IV and be sure he was comfortable for the night.

Comfortable for the night … 

House's comfort was very important to James Wilson. It always had been! Even when he had mistakenly accused the man of being an addict, more interested in the resulting high than in controlling his incessant pain.

My God! How unfair he had been. How unjust and uncaring. He had walked past Greg's office that night without a second glance when he'd known House was sitting on the floor in the dark and leaning, weeping, against the edge of his fancy ergonomic chair.

That would never happen again. Never!

If coming months were to be long and hard and filled with bitter words and angry accusations, so be it. He would be there. Gladly.

He would be there to shore Greg up, even when Greg did not _want_ to be shored. It was high time to even the score and do some listening, instead of wasting time thinking up things with which to give his friend another argument.

He would do it firmly and willingly, and with …

… dare he even think it?

With love.

Dick! He was looking at me funny all day.

Oh damn! 

Wilson grabbed his sport coat off the passenger backrest, and the wadded up ball of KFC napkins from the seat. He pulled his keys from the ignition and dropped the little bottle of Excedrin tablets into the center console. He took the last two swallows of the bottled water and crumpled the empty potato chip bag. First bag of chips he'd gotten to enjoy all by himself in months! It made him smile.

Jim reveled at the transformation that was beginning to take place in his mind.

He got out of the car with his bundle of paraphernalia and started eagerly toward 221B. Even as tired as he was, there was a new spring in his step.

The front door was unlocked. Cuddy had been expecting him.

He told her of the visit, and about the new ideas and methods of treatment which had been imparted by Dr. Dickinson. He smiled all the way through it, and she smiled in return as he related the events of the day. He dumped his little bundle of trash into the garbage and sprawled on the couch with a sigh.

They finally parted at 10:30 p.m. after Lisa had brought him up to date on House's status.

His friend had gone to bed at 9:00 p.m. He'd tried to wait up for Wilson, but his fatigue and weakness had overtaken him, and he'd had to throw in the towel.

In the dim light of the hallway, Wilson stood at the entrance to House's bedroom. Greg looked comfortable and innocent in the pale light from the window, almost like that four-year-old he would most likely become from time to time in the next couple of months.

Wilson stood and watched him sleep, and a wash of tenderness moved through his body in ways he'd never noticed before. This was family. This was his more-than-brother. This was his life. It always had been.

He was about to return to the living room and stretch out on the couch; prepare for the night's vigil.

In the darkness, he could hear, rather than see, the rustle of sheets. He tensed.

The voice was cracking a little, and weak from disuse, but he could hear a touch of relief and snarky humor in the words also.

"Just couldn't stay away any longer, could you?"

Wilson cleared his throat before he turned to walk away.

"I missed you too … but I'm home now … go back to sleep!"

Oooo0oooO

36


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Morning"

Wilson … Early Tuesday Morning:

It's too early to even think about getting up, but I'm finding it impossible to go back to sleep. I awoke at 2:00 a.m. and my back felt as though King Kong was pressing me down with a hand between my shoulder blades. I got up and went to the bathroom, then took a couple of extra-strength Tylenol and came back to bed. But they're not working, dammit, and I still have the ache, and it seems even worse than it was before.

Don't know if it might be the aftereffects of the stress from yesterday, and all the driving, or if I'm being laid low by my guilty conscience. Hard to tell, but if this keeps up much longer, I may just as well get up and go out in the kitchen and do yesterday's dishes. I can make some coffee and watch the sun come up from the window above the sink … or sit down with the laptop and put down some thoughts about my session with Dick …

Yesterday was strange from start to finish. I'm thinking about it, and yet trying not to. My mind keeps skirting the issue as I watch the first hints of daylight lift the lid off the darkness in the east, giving us early risers a peek at what promises to be a nice day.

I'm running hot water in the sink, getting ready to do last night's dishes and last _week's_ dishes, and if I know House, probably some of last _month's_ dishes. I can understand _now_ why washing dishes isn't one of his favorite activities. Standing on his feet in the same spot for more than a few minutes at a time, probably causes him more distress than I ever had any idea … or even paused to think about in all these years.

I _do _understand now, though, and it's causing me so much regret that I'm having trouble believing how callus I've been about his disability ever since the infarction. His apartment is messy because most of the time it hurts him to do more than just cursory cleanup. He wears unironed shirts because it's painful to stand and iron them … and having them sent out to a laundry just isn't high on his list of priorities. And the list goes on. He's a good cook, but he seldom cooks anymore because … well … I guess I don't have to keep screaming off the pier after a ship that left port years ago …

Here I stand … my mind all over the place. I've dumped the grounds from who-knows-when, into the trash and put on a fresh pot of coffee. My back hurts like hell as I lean over the sink to scrub the first round of glasses and cups and silverware and trying to find enough drying space for them on the drainboard. By the time I get to the pots and pans, they'll be piled to the ceiling.

Damn! 

I don't have any idea why House doesn't have a dishwasher in this kitchen. It's not like he can't afford it, but a dishwasher isn't a state-of-the-art sound system or a Gameboy or an i-Pod, and therefore, not important. House logic!

Actually, that's a pretty good idea for a Christmas present for him. He's a royal _pain_ to buy gifts for, and the only thing I've ever given him as a gift that wasn't "pooh-poohed" were bottles of expensive booze. Well guess what, Buster, this year it's gonna be a little different.

Oh well.

Three days' worth of food encrusted on these plates! He's got no Brillo, no SOS pads, no Scotch Brites … I'm gonna have to soak some of these. Hate to think of those two cook pots over on the stove.

My back still hurts and I still feel like King Kong is trying to hitch a piggyback ride! Probably time for a couple more Tylenol.

The percolator's bubbling up like Old Faithful. Good. Oh super … no clean mugs! Have to rinse one off to get a cup of coffee. Pouring. Stuff is strong enough to float a horseshoe!

Okay. Hot. Black. Tastes like somebody dragged their dirty socks through it. I gotta look around for the French press I got him for Christmas …

Mmmmm …

It's getting daylight faster now. Never took Tylenol with coffee before, but I guess there's a first time for everything … and I keep thinking back to the session with Dick yesterday afternoon. I almost dread the day I get the voice file in the mail. I know I sounded like a blithering idiot during that interview … hesitating … stuttering … falling over my own words like a nine-year-old … sounding more like some addled clinic patient than a medical doctor with three degrees.

I probably gave Dick the impression that I was in as bad a shape as Gregory House. There were a few times when I thought the old waterworks were going to spill over while we were talking, and that wouldn't have helped Greg or Dick or me … or anybody, for that matter. My professionalism was at an all-time low, and some of the time I felt almost tongue-tied.

I want to help House get well … not make him sound like some kind of doddering hypochondriac. Maybe I'd better not put any notes on the laptop until I see the voice file, or read the hard copy. I've got to clear up some of the questions Dick is bound to have after listening to an old friend who sounds as though he's lost all his marbles.

Oh Christ, House … your friendship means the world to me … and here I am acting like I've taken leave of my senses.

I need to talk to Dick again and clear up some of the crap I said while jabbering like a trained chimpanzee. Maybe sometime closer to the end of the week … hell, I dunno …

So … why do I have this sneaking suspicion that something malodorous is about to get tangled in the cooling device?

I knew I had to call Dick Dickinson again. Maybe sooner than the end of the week! My indecisiveness and uneasiness are intensifying, and I don't know why. And I have to tell Dr. Cuddy how I feel, and how messed up I am over this. She's been wonderful with House, and I owe her. A lot!

Anyway …

Oooo0oooO


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Lonely Vigil"

Tuesday night:

I'd turned the light off and sat by his bedside while he tried to settle down. After a time his breathing leveled off, and I eased out of the chair to go back and straighten the mess left by the day's minor storms. Some of my premonitions had come true in a less-than-pleasant fashion.

I paused awhile in the bedroom doorway, mostly to catch my breath and stretch my shoulders. I looked over at House, hunched on the bed, and thinking to myself how God-awful he looked. Skin and bones! Ten years older than his actual age … pale as a ghost, and so weak that his every jerky movement reminded me of a month-old infant.

He was lying there against a mountain of pillows, one skinny arm imprisoned in an IV setup, trying to sleep … or maybe trying to stay awake … I couldn't tell which … and as I looked over at him, the emotion began to overwhelm me, all the way from the soles of my shoes. Then the tears were up and over and running down … and I couldn't have stopped them with an act of Congress!

His bony knees were slightly bent, making little tents in the blanket that covered him, and his arms were bent too … I could see the bones of his elbows as he lay there, and it put me in mind of protruding hinges on a rusty old gate, thin and knobbed.

At the time, I wasn't sure exactly what all it was I was feeling. It was as though I was standing there looking across at a total stranger. But you don't usually fall apart inside with a stranger!

You may have a vague sense of sorrow, but the emotions that were washing out of me were ripping the bottom out of my soul, and I began to wonder if I would ever be able to stop crying.

I knew that part of the intense emotion surely had to do with my own frustration at being unable to take charge of the situation with this man. Many of his physical problems were of his own making, added to his inability to summon enough trust to report when he was having problems.

His habit of hiding pain and weakness stemmed from all the years he'd been accused of being a drug addict. He'd been dependent on the meds to control his chronic pain, but no one … including me … who professed to be his best friend … believed him when he told them (us!) how bad it was.

After awhile he'd stopped talking. Stopped confiding. Flaunted the pill popping. Defied the restrictions of his crippled body and pushed himself way beyond the limits that would have put down a lesser man a long time ago.

The result of this obstinacy was the emaciated creature on the huge bed across from me. His physical disability was crippling us both, and I had to accept part of the blame.

As I stood there, I could not help but think back on the man Gregory House used to be. He was tall, slender, athletic; arms like corded bull rope and legs like locust posts. He had a presence about him that made people straighten from whatever they were doing and take notice when he entered a room.

He exuded a verve and vitality that began to take possession of me the same day I met him, and thereafter left me breathless. Robert E. Lee had it. General Douglas McArthur had it. The actor, Sean Connery, had it. And Gregory House had it.

But now … now … would he ever possess it again?

As I stood there with tears running and my composure in tatters, I still could not take my eyes off him. How much of his current difficulties could be laid directly at my duplicitous feet? How many times had I carelessly hurt him in the same manner in which I had hurt the women I'd married with the promise to love, honor and … _betray?_

They say if you can't please anybody else, at least please yourself. I guess I did that very well. House has often told me how I "feed" off the needy. To which, one day, I'd loudly retorted: "Hah! Yeah, lucky for you!"

I'd seen the hurt in his blue eyes as they darkened to slate gray, and he turned his back and hunched around quietly in the opposite direction. Did I need to be needed _that_ badly that I would consciously … or unconsciously … injure those who supposedly meant the most to me?

Did I become an Oncologist because of a need to be able to tell people when they were dying? Perhaps thinking that if I were able to say it to others, I could avoid the admission that something deep within my own soul was withering and dying as well?

Did I have some perverted need to be able to lord it over House, now that he was physically weaker than me (presumably) … knowing that if he were still healthy and strong and athletic, I would have no hope of besting him at _anything?_ Was my need to be better than him at _something …_awakening in me the need to destroy him?

_No! Please God … No!_

And I knew immediately that that was not the case. But the thoughts had to come from somewhere. My insecurities, perhaps, or my attempt at an honest scrutiny of my own deep feelings for this irreplaceable brother-by-choice!

At that moment, I had no idea how he managed it, but this frail, fragile man stretched out across from me possessed twice my strength, twice my determination and twice my courage … now and forever.

He had stolen my bank account, my pencils and pens, my potato chips and my obstinate determination to ignore all his bullshit.

And now he had stolen my heart.

Oooo0oooO


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"The Other Leg"

Friday night:

Well … I was waiting for the crap to hit the cooler again … and it did. All week!

This morning, House finally told me he's been having severe pain in his left thigh.

Oh God! What has he done to himself this time? 

I'm a nervous wreck. I feel as though I've been drug through a knothole backwards, and I jump out of my skin at the slightest noise. The voice file arrived this morning and I listened to it by myself, locked in the bathroom. The damn file made me sound like a hen-pecked husband and a spoiled teen-ager by the halves. It was not a pleasant experience.

I can't help wondering if Cuddy has read her copy yet … Dick said he'd send her one. If she did, I cringe inside when I picture the frown on her face as she hears me hemming and hawing around, and stammering and looking for excuses to avoid Dick's questions.

She'll think I'm an indecisive fool, insisting on calling Dick in the first place, and then talking in circles and evading everything he asked about. Oh man!

And then Greg …

I took him to Princeton General tonight for a battery of tests that would choke a mule. He is fatigued and experiencing more pain … even after I administered morphine through the PICC line.

We've been home about half an hour, and I'm still edgy.

What the hell is _wrong_ with me?

There must have been something in my voice that Dick picked up on when I called him. I tried like hell not to sound like some idiot who was ready to step off a ledge, but every time I looked at House, from Tuesday night on, the waterworks threatened to start up all over again. I'm still hanging around in the kitchen so he won't see me acting like a frightened two-year-old.

The pain in his right leg has diminished, but the left one is causing him problems that rival the way the crippled one was before, and there were any number of things that could be causing it. We're reduced to waiting for test results from another hospital!

Every time he looks at me, I can feel his tension, though surprisingly he does not complain. Those piercing blue eyes are sunken deep into their sockets, and the former fiery glint reminds me of the final embers of a star about to go nova.

It hurts to think about it.

Even gathering the stamina to finally tell me about it must have cost him dearly. He still wasn't sure how I was going to take it, and he could not meet my eyes with his own. He always did have problems with that, but recently the reluctance has doubled. His newfound trust had been hard won, and I was afraid he expected me to cut and run at any moment. I figured the best way to reassure him that that was not the case, was to _not_ tell him he could still trust me, but to put my money where my mouth was.

Dick did not seem overly surprised that I had called him back so soon after the first consultation. His deep, calming voice reassured me that he understood perfectly that I'd been second guessing myself, and was getting ready to push the panic button after I'd had a chance to think it over. He'd seemed surprised I'd waited even this long to call him back with a load of doubts and fears and stupid insecurities. I really hated admitting he was right!

He asked me what I had going on for Saturday … tomorrow … about noon. I told him I'd taken leave from my duties to see this thing though with House, and then he wanted to know if I was familiar with the downtown Philly, and would I like to meet him there at a little restaurant called "Murano's" …

Of course I'd heard of Murano's … who hadn't? It was legendary for ribs and seafood and pastas, and it had been years since I'd eaten there. I said "sure …" and we agreed to meet there tomorrow at noon, each of us traveling about halfway between Princeton and Lancaster … well, almost.

We rang off and I heaved half a sigh of relief. Moving closer to the kitchen doorway, I hid around the corner and stole a look into the living room. Greg was, of course, still on the couch, right where he'd landed when we came in from Princeton General.

I saw a skitter of movement beneath the old tan blanket he'd thrown over his legs, and realized that House was moving around, almost the same way a dog turns in circles before finally plopping down. Probably trying to find a comfortable position to settle his left thigh, which was probably still feeling tight, and bothering the hell out of him.

He must suddenly have gotten one of those niggling, tickling sensations at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. The serpentine slither of movement stilled abruptly and a wide-eyed, scruffy face appeared like a startled rodent from behind the blanket. House and I were eyeball to eyeball in that instant, and a flash of startled guilt passed equally between the two of us, giving both of us pause for a heartbeat.

Oh damn! 

For an instant I thought to bring him ice from the freezer to ice down the nasty buzz that had to be causing more problems in that sore thigh. The corners of House's mouth turned downward and he shot me a scowl of half unguarded discomfort and half anger.

I had caught him at a vulnerable moment giving in to pain. To him, the sympathy in my eyes before I caught myself and looked away, must have been intolerable. He was ready to hand me some kind of sarcastic crack to distract me from whatever was still going on with his leg, but he silenced abruptly, before any sound escaped, when I lifted two fingers to my lips …

"Shhh …" 

He glared.

So typical!

I continued to hold my fingers to my lips and just looked at him, and he continued to glare back. But I could see his features begin to soften by degrees, until a hint of the old twinkle returned to the depths of those fathomless eyes, and a vestige of trust returned.

And that quickly, my old reliable waterworks were back. I could feel the tears threatening, and I knew they would not be good for either of us. I held my breath and blinked fiercely.

"Hey, House …"

"Hey, Wilson …"

"There's coffee and English muffins out here! How would you like some?"

I could almost hear the little wheels grinding. He was still trying to distract me from the pain he knew I'd seen, and I guess he figured if he kept me busy with my hands, then my brain would be less apt to process what I'd witnessed.

"Yeah … sounds great. Got any honey for the muffin?"

I grinned at him. Leave it to House to expect preferential service for the cripple. But the "cripple" designation had to be his own!

That quickly the waterworks were banished for the moment, and he was probably correct in assuming he'd diverted me. At any rate, we'd both won a round, and that wasn't a bad thing.

I should have remembered to bring him the ice then … but I didn't. As it turned out, my forgetfulness was a big mistake.

"Comin' up," I told him, and turned back to the kitchen. Give him a chance to do whatever he was trying to do with the leg …

The English muffin took three minutes. The coffee, thirty seconds. He was getting Turkey Syrup in lieu of honey, but he might not notice …

I poured myself a second cup of coffee as well, and set it beside his on a wooden cutting board, placed two syrup-soaked muffins beside them and carried it to the living room. I set everything on the coffee table and lowered myself carefully at the end of the couch near House's feet.

He had dragged about four bed pillows behind his back and was in pretty much of a sitting position when I got out there. His painful left leg was cocked against the side of the couch, his crippled one stretched out along the edge at the other side. I was extremely careful when I sat down, and he took note of it immediately.

"I'm not gonna break, y'know," he grumbled. "You can sit back if you want to. Aren't you tired?"

"It's okay," I said. "I'm fine."

He shot me a dirty look at that one, as though I'd dared steal a coveted line of his private dialogue. "In case you weren't aware," he said, "I've got a copyright on those last two words! Just so you know."

I ignored him.

He raised an eyebrow at me, rolled his eyes and inclined his head. He took one bite of English muffin and then shifted his eyes to me with a knowing squint. "Interesting brand of 'honey'," he observed. "Made from insectoid maple trees, right?"

I sighed. "Eat your damned muffin!"

That made him smile. He ate half of it, drank half his coffee and started on the other half.

Suddenly he gasped and his left hand flew to the middle of his left thigh. I took the muffin from his right hand and returned it to the cutting board. His coffee cup hit the floor and doused us both. He gasped and his face contorted into a grimace of pain that startled us both. His right hand groped blindly in the air for a moment, and I grabbed it instinctively, leaning over him. The low dose of morphine was wearing off.

I knew he was holding his breath to keep from crying out, and my thoughts groped blindly … like his hand in midair … ashamed all over again at my years of blindness to this man's pain and suffering. Where had my mind been? Where had my brain been hiding? Where had my _heart_ been hiding?

The fingers of Greg's right hand were around my left wrist like a pipe wrench. For someone as ill as he was, his grip was like iron, and I could almost feel my bones beginning to part beneath the pressure. This on top of the way he'd grabbed me at the hospital when they administered the painful electromyogram. My wrist was going to be black and blue in the morning!

I moved over beside him and pried his fingers away; shifted the positions of our hands until I was the one exerting the grip of my dominant hand gently upon his scrawny forearm. His jaw leaned into my shoulder and I reached around his back, drawing his body against me.

He was shaking like a two-cycle engine, and his respirations came in breathless gasps. I held him tightly, astounded that my arm reached all the way around his narrow back and my hand cupped over his right shoulder blade.

"Easy, House. Let me help you … relax into me and let's ride it out together." Taken completely by surprise and feeling a deep regret that I hadn't had the presence of mind to offer this simple act of support years ago, I rocked him in my arms and let my breath warm his neck and cool his pain.

As we sat there locked in awkward embrace, the painful contractions gradually eased off. We drew apart and sat frozen, staring wide-eyed like two people who have tripped over one another at an airport and ended up embarrassed in each other's arms. I had never seen such stark and naked panic in his eyes before. Maybe I hadn't looked!

I released him and sat back, uncertain whether I had helped or harmed. He said nothing for long moments, and I began to wonder if I had indeed undone every small stride forward we had accomplished during past days. I watched him wince slightly and move his left hand back toward the leg. It wasn't over yet.

I leaned across with him and placed the warm palm of my hand beside his between the junction of knee and hip. He watched me with a guarded expression: brows knit and lips slightly parted. He was wondering what I was getting out of this. I met the gaze without a word, just nodded my head slowly and touched the fingers of his hand with my own. He was still hurting, but it was less now, and he did not question me. I could see the indecision in his expression, but so far he had given me the honor of allowing the contact.

The spasm, or whatever it was, finally eased off. Greg leaned back against his pile of pillows and sighed loudly. He looked over at me as I withdrew from his personal space. He was angry, but not with me, and his eyes remained locked with mine. Finally, he spoke.

"I don't know what the hell that was … but thanks. It helped. Just like you did at the hospital earlier … having another body to hang onto for a minute made a difference."

"You're welcome. Whatever you need … whenever you need it. It's what friends are for."

I took a deep breath and pulled away from him the rest of the way.

When I looked up, his face was open, and there was no anger, no snark in his eyes.

"I'm fine," he said, and the tone of voice was low and reassuring. He may have been using a tad of, unusual for him, honesty.

Reluctantly he allowed me to examine his leg. I found nothing to get excited about. No bruising, no excessive redness, no apparent swelling or streaking of the surrounding tissue, other than tautness in the muscle at the site of all those damned needle insertions. I was concerned that the super-Vic had not touched the pain, and I was worried that the injury might, indeed, be acute.

What would happen when Cuddy and I finally told him that he might have to use a wheelchair until we got to the bottom of this? Trying to walk while his _good_ leg seemed to be out of commission as much as the crippled one would be not only intolerable, but impossible as well.

House would not be a happy camper. But he probably had some idea what would follow, just as well as I did.

I went to the kitchen and filled two Zip-Loc bags with ice, wrapped each one in a towel and walked with them past the couch and back to the bedroom. I could feel those piercing eyes on my back.

It was very late. Cuddy would be here early, and we both needed to sleep.

"You're hogging my damn bed!" I told him when I returned to the living room. I handed him three ibuprofen and a glass of water. "Take 'em!"

He did, without protest.

I helped him back to his bedroom, taking most of his weight with an arm about his waist. I settled him with the ice bags against his leg, removed his shoes and assisted him to lean comfortably into the giant pillow mountain. He was exhausted. Reminded me of an abandoned puppy.

"Go to sleep!" I grumbled. "Some of us need our beauty sleep as much as you do!"

He grinned.

I held off the water works until I got back to the living room …

Oooo0oooO


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"The Wheelchair"

Saturday morning about 7:30:

"Tired" doesn't begin to explain the way I feel right now.

As soon as Cuddy gets here to stay with House, I'm out the door to head for Philadelphia and my second appointment with Dick Dickinson. That damned old couch has done nothing for the stiffness in my shoulders that's persisted all week.

It certainly hasn't done much of anything for the big bruise on the inside of my wrist where House grabbed me. I did ice it after I came out to lie down the first time, but every time I moved, it slid off. I am now left with a nasty contusion that looks as though somebody attacked me with a ball-peen hammer, and it hurts like crazy. And I have a bruise on my hip that's gonna make wearing a seatbelt _murder! _

House is a powerful man with incredible upper-body strength, and at the time he didn't know he'd hurt me. He didn't know the second time either. What can I say?

All that strength, and last night he was reduced to riding a wheelchair …

Oh God! That reminds me … I've gotta go to the car and grab the wheelchair out of the trunk before he wakes up … Damn!

Sneaking in and out of this place isn't easy to do. The doors screech and squeal around, no matter how quiet you try to be. The metal on the damned chair is pretty cold. Even at this time of year. It cooled off pretty much last night. Not good for him to climb into it this early in the morning … though maybe if I'm lucky, he won't be up before I leave.

Cuddy should be able to catch a deep breath or two, maybe, before he begins to run her ragged for the day …

… and I banged my damn wrist on the trunk lid when I went to close it. Bruise on top of a bruise. Dick will think I've been in a bar fight. My eyeballs look like the craters of the moon … feel like it too.

I'd just begun to doze off this morning … it was sometime after four … and I heard something deep in that hazy place between sleeping and waking that made me startle awake in alarm and bolt straight upright. I was disoriented for a moment, and I froze to the spot, listening.

Oh no! 

House's cane landing hollow on the bedroom floor like the lid of a garbage can clanging in an alley!

I was off the couch, every hair on my body standing at attention, and I skidded around the corner into his bedroom. He was there … barely out of bed … beginning to make his way to the door.

What the …? 

His body was hunched forward over the cane, using it not only as a support for both legs which were much too sore and weak to support his weight … but as a fulcrum in a pitiful attempt at balance and the Herculean effort of keeping himself on his feet …

Oh Christ, House! 

I hurried to him and lifted up beneath his elbows with the palms of my hands in a gentle attempt to steady him. My wrist screamed with pain, but I didn't dare let him go. "What do you think you're doing?" I asked him.

He was silent for a second, too busy with his uncooperative body. "Needed more ibuprofen. Thought I'd get it myself. Sorry I woke you …"

At the same moment, he was realizing his decision to try to get out of bed had been a bad idea. I could feel his legs buckling, his bulk coming down on my abused forearm in a manner that it couldn't support. His cane crashed to the floor, glancing off my hipbone, and suddenly I was juggling all his dead weight and doing a miserable job of it.

I bit my lip against stabs of pain from every part of my body that was still capable of movement, and assisted House back into his bed. I told him to stay put while I went for the pills and a glass of water.

I brought fresh ice along, and he took the pills, drank the water and watched in stoic silence as I removed the melted bags of water and replaced them at his badly bruised thigh. He saw in my eyes the hurt I couldn't hide as I looked at his still-swollen leg.

"House …"

His next words threw me for a loop. "Jimmy … I've been thinking …maybe you could bring the chair inside for awhile. Leg's never gonna heal if I keep aggravating it …"

I said, "Good thinking,"

I sighed.

So did he.

"I'll bring the chair in before you get up."

He looked at me hard for a moment. "So leave me alone. I need to sleep now."

I turned out the light and started to leave.

I heard his words, soft in the darkness, where he would not have to witness my reaction: "Get some ice on that arm … it looks awful and it's gotta hurt like hell. Just ice it, okay?"

"Will do …"

The tears were running by the time I'd walked into the living room.

Why the hell do I let him get to me this way? 

Oooo0oooO

Well, I didn't make it out of the apartment before he woke up.

I probably disturbed him at the edge of wakefulness by bringing the wheelchair into his room and putting on the brakes with the thing facing the near side of his bed.

I sneaked back out again and headed to the kitchen to start a new pot of coffee … provided I could find the coffee grinder, the beans and the teakettle. Oh yeah … and the French press. The one I'd got him last Christmas, along with the fancy Krups grinder. Both were stashed on the top shelf of his most inaccessible kitchen cabinet, and I had to drag his step stool out of the utility room to get to it. I felt a twinge in my hip where the cane had hit me. I rubbed at it and mumbled a few choice words.

Coffee beans were in the bag in the freezer, half frozen fast to the side, exactly where I'd put them after New Years. I shook my head as I rolled the bag on the counter to free the frozen beans, wiped the greasy dust off the lid of the grinder and pulled the press out of its original box.

There were still snatches of Scotch tape and remnants of colorful Christmas wrap clinging to the box, and I remembered his exact words and his exact dubious expression as he looked at it. "What the hell is _this_?" It had gone back into the box and not been seen or heard from since.

Dammit, I _would_ have a decent cup of coffee before I had to get in the car and head for Trenton! I intended to indulge myself today, because I was dog tired already, and the day had hardly begun.

I'd turned on the burner, filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. I'd ground the beans and inhaled the delicious aroma that wafted out of the press as I dumped them into it. I poured the not-quite-boiling water and settled the lid-with-plunger atop the press.

Mmmm … heavenly! 

I leaned wearily into the side of the butcher-block table and paused for a moment to think about all the things I needed to talk to Dick about … and waited for Cuddy's arrival.

And that's when I heard the unmistakable "tick-tick-tick" of the ball bearings on the sleek Everest & Jennings wheelchair as it rounded from the living room and "you-know-who" stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen and grinned up at me.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at him as he sat there, bright and chipper, seemingly free from pain and looking a lot more rested than I felt. He was in his raggedy PJs and tee shirt, bare feet and ratty bed-head. If it had not been for his rail thinness, haggard look and lengthening scruff, he might have been a mischievous kid who'd just absconded with someone's private wheelchair to take it on a joyride.

"Coffee smells good," he said plaintively, craning his neck to look around me to the counter top.

"You haven't been to the bathroom yet, have you?" I accused, avoiding his obvious plea to be waited upon.

"You didn't put ice on your wrist," he countered defensively.

"How is your leg?" I refused to be baited.

"You're black and blue and still swollen. Did I do that to you?"

"You tell me if you need to go to the bathroom, and how your leg is this morning … and then we'll talk about my wrist. You first!"

"Don't need to go right now, and the leg is quiet at the moment. Both of 'em! Told you I was fine. Just a little weak." No concessions beyond the patently obvious. "You getting me a coffee? Or do you want me to get up and get my own?" He made as if to rise. "And you need to tell me about your wrist."

I walked over and reached out to stop him before he could lift either leg manually off the footrests of the chair. "Don't you dare! I'll get you a coffee as soon as it finishes brewing. A few minutes."

He noticed the hand I held in front of him was my right one. "Other one too sore?"

"Yeah … a little." I might as well admit it. After I left the apartment later, he couldn't harangue me about it anymore until I got back that afternoon. By then I'd have the soreness worked out.

"Sorry, Jimmy …"

"You were in no condition to understand what you were doing …"

"No excuse."

"You don't _need_ an excuse! Sit still while I pour the coffee. Want some toast or something with it?"

"Nah … not hungry. But the coffee sure smells good."

I stared at him, suspicious of his lack of appetite. He knew what I was thinking and shrugged. "I'll have something later … after Cuddy gets here. When you can finally go settle down somewhere and get some sleep."

I handed him a steaming cup before picking up my own, and avoided mentioning the word 'sleep'. "I put milk in it, but you're out of sugar."

"Doesn't matter." He took a noisy slurp. "Damn! This is good."

"Made it with the French press I got you last Christmas. Remember that?"

He looked away for a moment; studied the opposite wall. "Oh … you mean that thing that looks like a nut cruncher? I thought it was a nut cruncher." He shrugged and dropped the subject.

When he finished his coffee, I offered to assist him into the bathroom … help him shower … lend a hand with whatever he needed so he wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable having to ask Cuddy to do it.

When I mentioned that to him, his eyes widened with what was most certainly a moment of panic. "Why would I ask Cuddy? You got a hot date or something?"

"Or something …"

I left it hang for a long moment as his mercurial mind processed the implications. That's when I told him I was headed to Philly for a second session with Dr. Dickinson. The news did not go down well.

"Do you have to go? Today?" The question was so plaintive; so quietly beseeching, I had to look twice to be sure this was indeed Gregory House. I suddenly felt like a father who has to go to work and leave his sick child.

I pointed to the wheelchair and tried to cajole him into an easy acceptance. "It's okay … Cuddy'll be here soon, and I'm sure you can terrorize her with your new toy."

His blue eyes clouded quickly, and I knew he would not be distracted or placated. I sighed.

"C'mon, Jimmy, you don't need a shrink … and you don't need to eat lunch with some nerd left over from college. Why don't you stay here? We can watch Oprah and throw Nerf balls at the screen every time someone says 'feelings'. I think she's got Dr. Phil on today … it'll be a 'two-fer'."

"House … I've got to go. I _want_ to go. So I'm going."

I saw his brows close in on each other and I knew he was going to pout. He was just getting started on his patented "poor me" campaign, and the "pathetic cripple" look that quickly took over his chipper mood. He was an expert at whining when he chose to, and I could feel a major one coming on.

"What if my leg gets as bad as it was last night? Cuddy won't know what to do … you've gotta stay, Jimmy …"

I pursed my lips and rolled my eyes dramatically. He saw me as I'd intended, and it told him that two could play this game. I bent down until our eyes were on the same level. "Can you say 'man-ip-u-_lay_-shun'?" He reminded me of a front-end loader with the scoop extended. "Won't work, House … but I'll give you a few bonus points for the protruding lower lip."

We were interrupted suddenly by a familiar polite knock at the front door. I straightened and stepped quickly around him as he whirled the wheelchair gracefully and pumped furiously away to answer it. One of us had just won that argument by default, but I wasn't sure which of us that was!

I stared after him. Affection? Exasperation? Who knows!

The second kettle of water was ready to boil and I scooped more freshly ground coffee into the French press.

The green fuzz lining the bottom of the last coffee cup in the cupboard made it look a little inhabited … like someone had tried to grow an entire alien civilization at the bottom of a petri dish. In the white cup it looked a little intimidating, and I wondered if it might qualify as a potential dose of antibiotics, or at some later date threaten to take over the planet.

I checked beneath the clutter on the drainboard for a more sanitary one.

Aha! Gotcha! 

She was pushing the wheelchair and he was letting her when they came back into the kitchen. Cuddy, however, did not look too happy. She stepped away from him and crossed her arms over her chest provocatively. The expression she presented the first thing in the morning, was not a pleasant one.

I glanced up from pretending to be occupied pouring fresh coffee, and looked at her with something as close to innocence as I could muster. I then shifted my attention to House, who dared to presume an air of innocence that rivaled my own.

"Da-aah -aad …" he whined pitifully … and he made the word sound as though it contained three syllables … "you can't leave me alone with this babysitter! She beat on me the last time!"

Cuddy and I both glared at him. Sipped at our coffee.

He tried another tack. "She tried to seduce me?"

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, cringing as Lisa Cuddy exploded.

"House!"

It was gonna be a long day at 221B. I was kinda glad I wouldn't be there.

"I know when I'm not wanted," House harrumphed. He spun around and wheeled out of the kitchen, and it wasn't long before they heard the theme to General Hospital in the background.

Cuddy frowned. "General Hospital at eight o'clock in the morning?"

I shrugged. "DVDs"

"Oh. Uh … the most obvious question, which I knew better than to ask _him _ … is what's he doing in a wheelchair? The less obvious, but far more intriguing question would be why's he Velcroed himself to you all of a sudden?"

I was already feeling guilty about leaving Greg in his present condition in order to seek help to sort out feelings of my own, and Cuddy's second question brought all the frustration to the fore.

"You have no idea what he went through last night … no idea of the degree of his pain! You have no right to criticize any insecurity he might be showing …"

Lisa Cuddy stood looking at me horrified, her mouth open in astonishment, and suddenly I was just as horrified at my own anger and unfounded accusations.

"I'm so sorry …" I backed myself into the butcher block table and hung my head in shame. She did not deserve to be the brunt of my fear and frustrations. I was so completely overwhelmed by the physical and emotional toll of the long night. "Of course you have no idea. I didn't tell you. You remember that whole thing with his gait that you noticed on Monday?"

Cuddy nodded, and I went on more carefully, trying to explain my explosive behavior in a way she would understand without thinking I was losing my mind. "It turns out that his left leg … left thigh … has been bothering him badly since then. Heavy spasms a few times a day … and the super-Vic's not touching it. He was trying to hide it, and it cost him a lot to finally tell me about it. He got me to agree not to say anything to you until we knew more about what's causing it.

"I took him over to PG last night and put him through the full battery of tests … including an EMG …"

Cuddy winced in sympathy, and I thrust my bruised hand across for her to observe the swelling and the large dark contusion, which expanded outward from the impact of House's death grip.

"It was rough on him, and it's beginning to look as though it was all unnecessary. He left me a souvenir without even realizing it … this!

"The preliminary results didn't show anything unexpected. Probably won't have the results until Tuesday … but based on what I saw last night, I'm not expecting anything new to show up. It seems like the diagnostician was right. Again. It's a pulled muscle … or more likely a tendon. His enzymes are all within normal limits."

"And the wheelchair?" Cuddy reached for my wrist and placed her opposite hand over the abused area tenderly. Her eyes told me she was beginning to understand that something had happened last night that had turned my embattled emotions upside down.

"James?" Her voice was gentle and questioning, and she brought my attention back to the moment with alacrity.

"I … caught him trying to get out of bed during the night. He was doubled up over the cane. He could have fallen badly … we both could have … I barely got him back to bed before we both went down. And we're both pretending the wheelchair was his idea …

"He seems a lot better this morning, but you need to know that when the spasms come, they're an awful lot like the breakthrough pain he was having before. And I think he's scared. I _know _he is! When we got home, he told me that something is 'bad wrong'. He didn't have a medical basis for it, but he believes this is serious."

Cuddy must have seen the fear in my eyes. She patted my sore hand very gently and released it. She frowned and raised an elegant eyebrow. _"Could_ it be serious?"

Loaded question, kind of … 

"I'm not gonna second-guess House!" I said. "I've learned my lesson. I just know his pain is so severe that it scares him, and that's serious, no matter what the actual diagnosis turns out to be."

"What do you recommend I do if the leg _does_ spasm?" Cuddy's eyes were dark with concern. It was a tribute to her professionalism as dean of medicine of the hospital that she deferred to the deep friendship between House and me. She was actually asking for my opinion, and I was more than a little touched by it.

I answered her as honestly as I could. "Do whatever he'll _let_ you do. Just don't touch it … especially when it's acute. The quad's a big muscle, as you know … and I … well … I lost count of how many times they stuck him. And …"

"Okay, I get the picture. So the EMG just added to the problem for a couple of days. I almost feel sorry for him. I'm surprised he agreed to go through with it."

"He didn't," I told her sadly. "Not really. He did it because he trusted me … and … because I asked him to."

The emotion was rising to the surface again as I was reminded of House's anguish the night before. I lowered my face to my hands quickly, before she could see me weep, and I felt her warm hand touch my shoulder for a moment. Her concern for House must have been eclipsed by the equal worry for my own mental anguish.

"Are you gonna be okay?" I didn't answer right away, and I could feel her drawing closer, perhaps to offer more than just the soft touch to the shoulder.

We both heard the "tick tick" of the wheelchair at the same moment as it approached the spot where we stood, just around the corner from the living room. We both straightened and turned a pair of desperately bright smiles upon its occupant.

House, meanwhile, parried his appraising glance between us, obviously searching for a trace of conspiracy. He either saw none, or was giving us the dignity of ignoring it.

Bless his dirty black heart if he was!

I gathered my crumpling senses and quipped to Cuddy: "If this guy drives you _too_ crazy, just reconnect the TPN … which has been off too long anyway … and refuse to put the IV pole on the wheelchair. That'll buy you … oh … about ten minutes of peace until he figures out a way to attach the cane to the chair and hang the bag from _that!"_

We got that two-edged calculating stare again, but he said nothing. Just made one of those scrunched-up faces, whirled the chair 90 degrees and rolled off.

Cuddy wilted, and I backed into the edge of the table again.

"Ironic, isn't it? He's like greased lightning in that chair, not really disabled at all. And he's willing to give up that freedom because his pride won't let him acknowledge the full extent of his disability."

Cuddy held my eyes, and I could feel her mental calculations from half a room away. Both our thoughts had already returned to House. "I'm still not sure what to do for him of his leg gets bad," she mused.

She was avoiding the issue, and I wondered a little about the tendency toward denial that lives in each one of us …

"If it's _really_ bad … and if it happens, it surely will be … give him 5mg of morphine. He won't tell you he needs it. He'll still be remembering the time you injected the placebo. He may even tell you he _doesn't_ need it. So it'll have to be your call. Otherwise, all you can do is offer whatever comfort he'll allow, until the spasm eases. It'll be difficult for both of you."

God! How's that for understatement? 

Cuddy nodded. Averted her eyes. Lowered her voice. "Now I understand why he seems so reluctant for you to leave here today. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling a little reluctant myself." Her smile held a touch of irony that wrinkled her nose and turned one corner of her mouth downward in a snarky imitation of our favorite juvenile delinquent.

"You'll be fine," I assured her. "Believe me, if I didn't really need this, I wouldn't be going. I'm tired, I've been sore all week … and my hand hurts. But compared to the problems House is dealing with, I sound like a cranky two-year-old!"

Cuddy's expression softened as she looked across to me again, and I could tell she hoped I would find a measure of courage and peace of mind through a second session with Dick Dickinson.

"I promise not to kill him while you're gone. And I'll wait 'til you get back so you can bear witness to my claim of self-defense. Anyway, drive carefully, okay?"

"I will."

She turned back to kitchen chores as I prepared to leave.

I said my goodbyes to House as I walked into the living room to grab my briefcase and blue sports jacket.

The wheelchair was turned toward the piano, and he didn't bring it around to face me at first.

"See you later, House. I shouldn't be gone too long. Don't do anything dumb, and try to do as Cuddy asks … okay?"

I paused for a moment with my hand on the doorknob as the "tick tick" told me the wheelchair was turning around in my direction.

His gaze was on me, his lips parted as though he might say something. Then his eyes lowered and he remained silent. The characteristic quick nod was my only hint that he acknowledged I was leaving.

I walked through the door and closed it behind me.

The bleak, sad look in those blue eyes haunted me until I was at least a half dozen miles out of Princeton …

Oooo0oooO


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"On the Road Again"

The sidewalks were wet when I went out to the car. It was overcast and looked to stay that way. I unlocked the driver's door and threw my jacket over the passenger seat and the briefcase on the back floor.

Once inside, I sat with my head bowed against the steering wheel, just feeling washed out and weary with the whole business of the past few weeks and the mental and physical toll it was taking from all three of us.

The one thing House didn't try with me was the one thing that might have worked: all he had to say was that I was too tired to drive all the way to Philly. I'm glad he didn't notice, because I couldn't have argued that one … and I really did need to do it.

I finally got myself together enough to get the car started and let it run to warm up a few moments before pulling out. I might have put one of House's really awful rock CDs in the player, just to keep myself alert and on edge, but right then I don't think I could have managed to stomach one of those screechy things. I don't mind the music, really, but when those people who can't sing open their mouths and spew out all that garbage, I want to throw up. So … no thanks. Bonnie Raitt will sound much better.

I finally put the car in gear and rolled down Baker Street onto Hanover, waited for the light to change at Exchange Drive and Hammond, and then eased onto the main drag, headed east. I was on my way at last. My thoughts turned immediately back to House and his pleading expression. I missed him already, and my sympathies were with Lisa Cuddy, if she had to listen to him whine all afternoon. Mmmm …

Driving to Philadelphia is a lot different from driving to Lancaster. Some Pennsylvania highways are wall-to-wall potholes, and these certainly were. Weekend traffic was heavy and drivers were impatient, cutting in and out, giving no quarter to anyone, and I was constantly on guard for idiots who laid on their horns and jumped lanes in order to gain the smallest advantage.

It turned out that it had rained during the night in PA, and was still showering off and on. The pavement was slick, and in some places, muddy. I had to compensate for that as well. Angry drivers constantly threw muddy water up over the hood and splashed the windshield. I kept the wipers on "intermittent", not that it did much good, and my foot was constantly moving from gas petal to brake and back again. The Volvo is usually pretty good on gas, but I could almost see the needle inching slowly to the left.

My shoulders were beginning to hurt again, and the wrist, which I'd thought to rest and ease during the drive, began to ache with tension by the time I was twenty miles out. At thirty miles, a tension headache had added itself to the mix, and I began to wish I'd listened to House and not bothered with this trip. The seat belt was, of course, riding directly across the spot on my hip where House's cane had ricocheted off my bones in the middle of the night, and added to the general discomfort.

Suddenly I was thinking of myself as the biggest baby … the biggest grump on the planet. My inconsequential aches and pains were nothing next to the ongoing medical condition that had continually plagued my best friend for seven-going-on-eight years, and counting.

Was I feeling a pang of petty jealousy suddenly creeping over me where it had no business? Could I be experiencing something like regret for the role into which I had purposely thrust myself years before? Did I feel it weighing me down after all this time as caretaker-by-choice of this brilliant diagnostician for whom I held nothing but respect and a deep admiration?

I held the Volvo steady in the right-hand lane, my thoughts as intermittent as the wipers across the windshield, as indecisive as my foot gravitating between gas and brake. As unpredictable as the rain and the sun competing with one another for control of the day's weather …

What would be the next urgent medical crisis to knock Gregory House to his knees and add to his already overtaxed physical and mental burden? He was already aware that I stood beside him like a barroom bouncer, fending off the Goody Two-Shoes, the sympathizers, the curious: those who stared, those who pitied. Greg ignored them. I could not.

It wasn't Greg who chose the intervention of a psychologist. It was I! It was I who did not trust my own instincts to handle a difficult situation with knowledge or grace or intuition or respect or courage or love. It was I who was indecisive, who was so afraid of inflicting harm that I sometimes also refrained from offering good.

The physician's oath: "First, do no harm …"

I was so afraid of causing harm that I was running away from … running toward …

"What?"

I was at first unaware that I had spoken the word aloud, and suddenly I _was_ aware of a deep, frightening need. A need that chewed at my stomach lining and my heartstrings!

I did not know what it was that I needed.

I just needed!

Oooo0oooO


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Spilling One's Guts"

Murano's is located in one of the sections of the city that have been gradually reclaimed from ruin. Narrow streets, once lined with skeletal cars and littered with garbage and graffiti, now stand clean and reconstructed. Brightened with colorful paint, and happily populated by the proud former-poor, this area of Philadelphia continues to make a bold statement that determined people can, indeed make a difference.

Coming off the highway and slowing gradually to accommodate the flow of inbound traffic, I was beginning to experience a shift in my general well being. The fatigue that had plagued me all week was lifting a little, and the weight on my shoulders was becoming less, the closer I was getting to my destination.

I was relaxing, throwing off the desperate need for sleep as I moved into the depths of the city, and I realized just how much I needed this interval. Only the bruised wrist remained a problem. It ached relentlessly, and I finally delved into the center console for the Excedrin I'd placed there Monday night. I took three of them and then coped with the bitter aftertaste of downing them dry. How the devil had House dealt with this disgusting ritual every day of his life?

The all-consuming fear I'd been feeling in the face of Greg's multitude of problems seemed to be diminishing a bit as the session with Dick Dickinson drew nearer. I needed anything he could offer me by way of dealing with my stubborn friend, and staving off the onset of what I'd come to call my "waterworks". After today, would it still hurt so badly to watch him deal with the differences in his crippled body and the changes in his coping mechanisms?

It was still raining off and on as I drove, enraptured, through these streets, appreciating the effort and ingenuity that had gone into their reclamation. The project was an ongoing thing, I realized, as my eyes scanned nearby rooftops. In the distance I could still see decimated buildings, their spindly chimneys reaching toward the sky like the arms of drowning men reaching out of the depths.

As I drove further, the thoroughfare widened gradually, opening into a solid canyon of granite, stone and concrete. Neon signs penetrated the foggy daylight and reflected off the wet pavement and the black asphalt. The tiny business district spoke of highly original entrepreneurial flavor and individualism, encompassing the neighborhood itself that one would never find at any shopping mall anywhere in the world.

Philadelphia had begun life as the original lap of American government … and as a cocoon for individuality and freedom. It had gradually been transformed, over the long intervening years, into a grotto of filth and ruin through neglect and corruption. In recent decades, however, it was trying to turn the tide and return to its old and glorious history. If this district was any indication, it was succeeding, one battered neighborhood at a time.

Murano's was the talisman of the entire block. Surrounded by shops and galleries that represented many of the nationalities of the free world, its theme of elegance and elegant simplicity made it the standout landmark of the vicinity.

I pulled up in front and stopped at 10:45 a.m., very conscious of the fact that an attendant in fiery red livery was headed toward me and walking around to my side of the car. He would take the car and drive it to some obscure area for the length of time I was there. When I made ready to leave, he would once more be waiting at the curb with the Volvo, and I would drive away. This had happened each time I'd visited there, and I still had no idea where he took my vehicle, or how he knew when I was ready to go. I had always had the presence of mind not to ask.

I left the motor running and got out, took my briefcase and my sport jacket and watched as the man got in and pulled away from the curb. When I stepped to the sidewalk and strode into the restaurant's vestibule, another car stopped in front and another livery person exited from a side entrance and hurried to that driver's door …

A maitre d'hotel waited by the entrance to the formal dining room, and walked up to me with a smile.

"Dr. James Wilson, I presume?"

I nodded. "I am indeed."

"This way."

He led me through a maze of beautifully appointed tables and their diners, indirect lighting, lush potted plants and handsome dark red décor, to a row of smaller chambers toward the rear of the room.

He paused at the doorway to the third in line of these, and stood back to allow me entrance. It was small and private, richly appointed and almost like a cubicle. My old friend, Dick Dickinson, was seated at the single, well-laid table in the center. He was dressed casually: tan chinos and a white shirt rolled to the elbows, ascot, and black penny loafers.

Dick stood as I entered and the maitre'd disappeared, as though by sleight of hand …

"Hi, Jimmy," Dick said. He held out his left hand and I grasped it. "You look tired. Long drive?"

I nodded, a little distressed that he'd detected my general condition so readily. "All the maniacs on the east coast are out on the highways today. It's been a loong week!"

Dick turned my left wrist over, even as he still grasped my hand. He squinted one eye and looked at me questioningly.

"Ouch! You're swollen! And that hand looks sore. Anything to do with the ongoing problem?"

I nodded. He was quick with his observations. This promised to be a long session. "Everything to do with it, I'm afraid. Things are not going well, and Dr. House's problems seem to be multiplying exponentially."

I plopped my jacket across the back of an empty chair, placed my briefcase on the seat, and sat down across from Dick. He followed my lead and lowered himself into his own chair, looking at the briefcase curiously, but not asking.

I'd placed House's complicated medical history inside, on the odd chance that I might be called upon to refer to it. I'd also included my private notes on the case, most of which House had no idea I'd been accumulating ever since the time of his infarction.

His medication records were all there, as well as notes I'd pilfered from hospital files that included accounts of his surgeries from the physicians involved. The accumulation was thorough and extensive, and Greg was probably unaware that they even existed to such an extent. He may have known that each doctor kept his or her own notes, but he had no way to access their private computer files.

Dick poured us each a cup of coffee from the pewter urn in the middle of the table, and set one of them down in front of my plate. "I took the liberty of ordering us each chicken cordon bleu, a baked potato, Harvard beets and pepper cabbage. Spiced apples and egg chiffon on the side, and cherry pie alamode for dessert. I remember your preference for the chicken from college days, and I hope the rest is satisfactory."

He looked at me hopefully, and I knew the look was one of mild appraisal. I smiled, just to let him know I understood, and nodded. "Sounds fine to me. Thanks, Dick."

He nodded in return and sat facing me seriously with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on the edge of the table. He'd covered most of his crippled right hand with the left one, but I could see the atrophied muscles in his forearm and the deep surgical scar that bisected the destroyed tendons between wrist and elbow. Amazingly, he was not the least bit self-conscious about the appearance of the arm, and made no effort at concealment by keeping the sleeve rolled down.

After years of seeing Gregory House wearing nothing but blue jeans and other long pants to cover up the cavernous scar that disfigured his crippled leg, I had to admire Dick's courage in valuing comfort rather than decorum. I wondered idly whether I would ever again see Greg House in bathing trunks …

The meal arrived while we were drinking our coffee and talking about our jobs and our friends and in general, catching up on everything we did not talk about the Monday before.

"So!" Dick said when the final wedge of cherry pie had done a disappearing act: "What's going on with you, Jimmy? I've never seen you this indecisive or this nervous … or … dare I say … this frightened. What's happening with Dr. House that has you so tensed up?"

I looked at him and knew that he'd seen through the "tough guy" façade I'd tried to present to hide the fact that I was … pardon the expression … scared shitless.

Here goes nothing … 

"I guess I'm afraid I'll make a fool of myself for posterity."

At this point, the maitre'd and a pair of workers in spotless white uniforms entered through the door with a wheeled, three-tiered cart. They exchanged the pewter coffee urn with another one exactly like it, disposed of our dinner remains with competent haste, and left immediately. The maitre'd backed from the room and closed the door softly behind him.

Dick looked at me pointedly. "We have the next two hours to talk in full privacy, so whatever is on your mind, we can discuss it thoroughly and at your leisure. Are you all right, Jimmy? You worry me a little."

I saw him reach into the pocket of his shirt and fish out the tiny digital tape recorder. He'd evidently brought it along for the same reason I'd brought Greg's pregnant medical file. Insurance! Dick had obviously been certain also, that this would be a long, drawn-out session. Three cheers for Dick! By the time this was over, he would probably lay my soul bare for the whole world to see.

Standard answer in the world of my own making: "I'm fine."

He cocked his head at me inquiringly, asking my permission to turn the recorder on.

I stared at the little machine with mixed emotions, my mind going back to my embarrassed reactions even as I listened to the first voice file while sequestered with it in Greg's bathroom.

I nodded shortly, and he pressed the switch to "record." We were off and running.

"Greg is so sick," I blurted. "He's so sick and so hurt and in so much pain that I'm at a loss to know what to do for him next.

"There was a time when I literally wanted to kill him! Shake him until his teeth rattled and get him off the pain medication, even if I had to lock him in a padded room and throw away the key. I honestly thought he was an addict, and that his pain wasn't real. I thought he wanted to get the buzz … get high and stay high … and the pain in his leg wasn't so severe that he couldn't handle it with a pain regimen that didn't include narcotics.

"God, Dick … I couldn't have been more wrong! I'm the reason he lost his ability to trust. I'm the reason he clammed up and wouldn't talk to anyone. I had to actually witness the screaming, clawing agony he had to go through because I made him make a bet that he could go without his pain meds for a week.

"He actually took a 16 oz. Pestle and fractured two fingers on his left hand in order to override the agony in his leg. I saw him at the end of his rope and at the bottom of the barrel.

"House is a musician, Dick. Greg House is a concert pianist with such talents you wouldn't believe unless you heard him play. He risked all that to break his own fingers. He could no longer stand the severity of the pain in his leg that I caused when I conspired to trick him into giving up his pain meds.

"I learned the hard way that he is _dependent_ on those meds … _not _addicted. It doesn't sound like much of a difference, but trust me … it is. He could have died because of what I did.

"Right now I'm afraid that my sympathy and compassion for him is overshadowing my professional responsibilities … the reality of his pain is getting to be a little … well … overwhelming for me. It hurts. Badly. Believe me when I tell you, Dick … there's more than enough pain coming from House without adding my own into the equation. I have to stay emotionally healthy for him, or we're both sunk.

"I _can't_ allow him to see how badly my empathy for his pain is affecting me! I … just … can't!"

Dickinson's deep voice came across the table toward me very softly. It got my attention and stood every hair on my body on end.

"Why?"

He leaned toward me, and the dark eyes drilled into my own. "_Why_ can't you let him see how you feel? Why can't he be given the chance to understand how deeply you obviously care for him? Why shouldn't he know how important his friendship is to you?

"My God, Jimmy, your professionalism isn't at stake here. Your compassion is. It's obvious to me that this man is one of the most … if not _the_ most important person in your life. A blind man could see it with a cane."

At that moment, as I looked across at Dick, I was feeling nothing but panic. What did he mean? _THE most important person … ?_

I had always known Dick's orientation, and his fulfilling relationship with Dais. Did Dick think that House and I could possibly … ? Oh God!

I blinked and took a deep breath, and when I looked back, he was smiling. His observation had certainly broken the tension brought on by my tendency to whip myself. I smiled back, took a deep breath and let it out in a powerful "whoosh!"

I began to tell him about House's in-home treatment of the breakthrough pain, and then about the frustration of the next few weeks. And now the new agony of the pain in the other leg, and the tests at a hospital across town … and the painful EMG and the resulting inability for him to even walk … and the instigation of the use of a wheelchair and House's stoic acceptance of it, along with his constant refusal to …

And my ongoing tale of woe went on and on and on … and now House had, in Cuddy's words, "Velcroed himself to me" … like a child in a supermarket who turns around and believes his mother has gone off and left him at the mercy of strangers.

I finally had to come up for air. The weight was lowering across my shoulders again, the headache knocking softly at my temples, seeking admission. My hand was bothering me badly, and I wished I had another couple of Excedrin.

I reached to the coffee urn and poured another cup. It was hot and strong and almost medicinal. I drew a breath of the heady aroma into my lungs and savored it as Dick turned off the little recorder and paused to look up at me. I looked back at him, half expectant, half in dread.

We sat for a few moments, thinking; gauging each other. Then Dick began again.

"Tell me about Dr. House's response to the conversation you had with him concerning the loss of the breakthrough pain." I saw him press "record", even as he spoke.

I stared. I had not broached it. I'd been afraid to. I waffled. "I didn't ask him. I thought it was unnecessary right now."

"Jimmy … you must talk about it with him. The repercussions of ignoring something this important could be devastating for him later. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Dick was being gentle, taking my shattered feelings into consideration, but at the same time stressing the fact that House had to face his feelings on the subject, indistinct though they might be, and even as inarticulate as he might sound in broaching the subject with me.

"Sometimes I feel … funny … about invading his personal space when I have to treat him. Asking such questions of him only makes me feel more like the invader … and when I must touch his body as a doctor, he tenses on me and looks away as though to pretend I'm not there, and it's _all_ a game of pretend. Other times he doesn't seem to mind. I never know … and I sometimes wonder what it's doing to him psychologically."

"It may make him uncomfortable initially," Dick assured me. "But each time it happens, it gets a little less alien to him, and a little less distasteful. After awhile he will probably begin to think of them as therapeutic. He is, after all, your friend. Let him ease into it gradually. Don't force anything. He'll come around. He does respect you … I can tell from the things you say about him.

"Now. Jimmy. What about you? It's a given, from the look of you, that you need to get some rest soon before you burn yourself out. I know you can't just leave him and go off somewhere to be alone and commune with your own thoughts.

"Perhaps you need to ask your Dr. Cuddy to accept a larger role in this so you can go off and hide somewhere to catch up on your rest. If you don't, you're not going to be doing House any good … or yourself. You'll all just fall in a heap on the floor … and that'll be the end of that!"

I frowned at him, and then saw the twinkle in his eye. He was trying to lighten it up.

"I'll ask her," I said. "I know she'd be willing, but she does have the hospital to run, and she's losing a lot of sleep through this difficulty also. I can't lose track of that."

Dick nodded. His thumb was worrying the switch on the little recorder, and I could tell he thought we'd delved deep enough into this mess for a little while. "Will you give me a call every day? At least every two days … keep me up to date on what's happening with this stubborn hero of yours?"

I smiled and shrugged.

Stubborn Hero … It fit.

I reached across the table with my left hand again, trying to avoid contact with his crippled one. He gripped my sore wrist inadvertently and squeezed hard. I winced with the pain and my knees buckled for a moment.

Damn! 

He apologized and I recovered. And we laughed at the irony of inflicting pain on a friend while studiously endeavoring to do just the opposite.

We both left the restaurant at 2:00 p.m. It was raining hard. We waited in the vestibule for the attendants to bring our cars, then cut and ran when they arrived.

Dick was headed for Lancaster, and I to New Jersey.

"Give my best regards to Dais," I called after him, "and thank him for giving you up on a Saturday!"

"Will do," he said. "Don't forget we're getting together for that poker game when Dr. House feels up to it."

I grinned. "That is not something I'm likely to forget. Thank you, Dick."

"Anytime …"

I had not needed the medical file for my Stubborn Hero.

The attendant returned with the Volvo as Dick Dickinson pulled out with his big silver Chrysler 300. I got in and flung my jacket over the front seat again, and for some reason I plunked the briefcase down on the same seat with the clasp facing me, and wiped the rain off my face with the sleeve of my shirt.

Why did I do that? It was used to the back floor. Darned if I know. Wanting the illusion of looking the Snarkmeister in the face, maybe.

Miss you, you big jerk. See you shortly … 

Oooo0oooO


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Home Again, Home Again"

By the time I got back on the highway and away from the city, there was no longer the canyon of buildings surrounding me and keeping the car from being buffeted by strong winds and lashing rain. The skies were dark and scowling and most oncoming traffic was using headlights and fog lights and windshield wipers on "high". I pulled on the Volvo's lights and ran the defroster full-tilt just to combat the humidity. It was angry and dark out there, even though it was still barely past 2:30 p.m. I had a sneaking feeling that this wouldn't be a pleasant drive home.

I was stuck in a long line of slow-moving traffic that included a passenger bus, a string of tractor-trailers, and a heavy-duty dump truck hauling some kind of huge industrial digger with a boom at each end. Two of the big rigs were in the passing lane, trying to go around the slower-moving vehicles, but didn't seem to be making any headway. The mush they were throwing up across my windshield gave me the sensation of running along beneath a waterfall laced with debris. The Volvo's wipers were struggling just to keep up.

Two cars ahead of me, and over in the passing lane, a fancy silver Corvette was slewing back and forth, looking for an opening to put the pedal to the metal and leave this plodding herd of metal buffalo far behind. The guy wasn't having much luck, and I gave him a wide berth. Behind him, also in the passing lane, other drivers of faster cars, big pickups and SUVs were also looking for a way to get out of the bottleneck, and most of them weren't being very patient about it. I sighed, determined to remain calm. Rather them than me!

My Bonnie Raitt CD finished and I removed it from the player. Dug in the center console and found the score from "Phantom of the Opera". Loaded it, and pressed the "play" button.

I adjusted my hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward to better see beyond the slop that cascaded down the windshield and across the car's hood. The red taillights of the tractor-trailer ahead of me gave me a point of reference to stay in the lane directly behind him. The sludge he threw backward in his wake obscured everything else. The Corvette in the passing lane still wavered in and out, but he was blocked from the front and the right, and had no choice but to remain in line. I watched him warily and hung back in case he did something stupid.

And so we rolled along.

My thoughts wandered, in turn, between the session with Dick Dickinson and a mounting concern about whatever might be happening back in Princeton with Cuddy and House. At least my thoughts were diverting me from the returning pain across my shoulders, my wrist and my hip from the cramped driving position, and the constant need to be wary of my surroundings in the Congo line of snail's pace traffic.

I was still a little anxious about Dick's total permission that I allow House to witness the strong emotions I experienced at his suffering and pain. The idea of allowing Greg to see me actually break down and shed tears in front of him was a little scary … not only from my own reactions to it … but from my giving him the perfect opportunity to make fun and lay on the sarcasm six inches deep in order to not let himself fall into the same trap.

The concern about what might have taken place at 221B Baker Street while I was away from there, ran a little deeper than my skepticism at letting myself bawl in front of Gregory House.

Something told me that we hadn't heard the last from the recent problem of recurring spasms in House's left leg. I tried to think back to the day he had returned home from the hospital … his fall in the bathroom … the violent nausea he had experienced later … any occurrence I could bring to mind that would explain an acute injury to the opposite leg which could cause him such palpable misery. Something that would send him, just short of screaming, to a hospital all the way across the city for tests that would produce even _more_ pain. House couldn't possibly take much more!

That was the trigger.

The combination of my fatigue, the physical pain that was gaining on me again, and the impossibility of doing anything about it, pulled me in like a whirlpool. The sudden return of sorrow for my best friend's misery that I could do nothing about, hit me hard, and I could feel the convulsing in my diaphragm that told me I was about to lose it yet again.

I could almost count the seconds to the moment my sinuses became congested and my eyes filled to the brim. All I needed now was for my own waterworks to flood the inside of the car in the same manner the weather was flooding the outside.

Damn! 

That was the moment the cell phone rang with muffled insistence from inside the pocket of my briefcase.

Cuddy! Oh God … House! 

I clung grimly to the steering wheel with my throbbing left hand and made a dive for the pocket of the briefcase with the right. Scrabbled the cell phone out and hit the "talk" button with my index finger.

"What's the matter?"

I was too harsh; my words loud and desperate. The world outside the windshield was closing in on me and my attention was divided dangerously between the internal and the external, with no maneuvering room between.

If I ceased, even for a split second, to pay attention to the reality around me and swerved in this snarl of traffic, I could kill myself, and perhaps innocent people as well.

If I did not pay attention to the female voice in my ear, its lapse into panic, controlled only by an icy edge of reason, I was in danger of losing my best friend … and as Dick had hinted an hour or so ago … perhaps the most important person in my life.

Cuddy was reciting a litany of difficulties with Greg's increasing leg pain that was overwhelming her better judgment and giving her cause to doubt her own professional acumen. He had locked her out of his room, relenting only after she'd threatened to call the fire department and paramedics to the scene. He would not allow her to allay his pain with morphine, and instead lay writhing in his bed, wet with his own perspiration and teeth clenched against the screams she knew he would not hold back if she were not right there next to him.

I had _never_ heard Cuddy come unglued before. I found that my body was shaking uncontrollably, shivering with cold, even in the close humidity of the car. I could feel the fear clenching my guts and my bladder constricting with an overwhelming urge to urinate.

I couldn't help it … I cursed angrily into the phone. Why wouldn't the world just stop for a moment and give me a few moments to draw a deep breath?

Cuddy's voice changed in a heartbeat. "James … I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to lay this on you. You've got to be dead on your feet … the weather is crappy … and you're trying to get home. Please forgive me! We can hang in until you're home safe …"

"And I'll be there soon."

We exchanged apologies and hung up. I was still shaking, still had to _go_, still frightened out of my wits for Greg. And Cuddy couldn't "unsay" the words that made my heart almost stop beating in my chest.

I fumbled with the dead cell phone and reached out to tuck it back into the pocket of the briefcase.

At just that moment, a flash of bright red lights slid from left to right across my peripheral vision. The Corvette had finally found his opportunity to make a break for it, and was veering across behind the trailer truck to do … God knew what … along the right hand berm of the road.

Too late, I jerked the steering wheel around and slammed the injured wrist against the dashboard as my hand slid off the wheel. I cursed again in pain, and slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting his rear bumper, coming to the terrible realization that the lights I'd seen were merely reflections of the truck's brake lights rippling in multiple layers across my hood by the cascading water and the action of my laboring windshield wipers. Also too late, I sluiced the steering wheel in the opposite direction with my right hand, trying to compensate for my error of judgment.

The Volvo skidded as the brakes locked, and crossed over, miraculously accident-free, over the center median, rabbit-hopping in front of three lanes of traffic, toward the opposite berm. I felt the driver's side wheels lose traction in the mud, and the car started to tilt dangerously as though about to go over a precipice. I braced myself and held my breath for impact. There was nothing I could possibly do to prevent whatever was about to happen.

The tires lost their grip and I felt the undercarriage hit as the car continued to slide. I didn't see my entire life flash before my eyes, but I did think of House and Cuddy and wondered how they would get along without me.

Even at the brink of possible death, I discovered I still had an ego!

I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

For a moment I felt nothing, and wondered if I'd crossed over into another dimension. If I had, then the experience had left me wondering if that's all there was. Slowly I opened my eyes and looked around.

The Volvo was stalled out and I was completely off the road. I was wedged against the driver's door and my hand was screaming with pain. When I pulled it away from where it was pinned beneath the armrest, however, the pain diminished. I reached up and turned off the headlights and then peered ahead through the driving rain. The lack of glare from the lights made it easier to see.

I was sitting in a field, pointed in the opposite direction from the way I was headed. Traffic was sweeping past directly to my right, oblivious of any incident that might have caused them to be sitting in stalled bunches, waiting for state police to clear debris from an accident scene. An accident scene from which I may or may not have left alive …

I sat still for a few minutes, catching my breath and wondering if it might be possible for me to drive out of there. I tried turning the key, and the tight Volvo engine purred to life. I tried moving the gearshift into "drive" and grasped the wheel again, wincing at the pull of the injured tendons that I seemed to keep abusing even more as the day grew older. Maybe my body was trying to tell me something!

The wheels spun on the wet turf at first, so I moved the shifter into low range and eased onto the gas. In inch at a time, the tires gripped. The field was rough, cultivated, not meant as a freeway. Inch by inch, then foot by foot, I eased the car out of the field and onto a dirt lane that led to a farmhouse about a half-mile to the left.

When the tires hit solid ground, I put on my sport jacket and got out, walked around to check for damage. There was some. The front fender was bent toward the tire, but not enough to scrape it during a turn. There was a furrow along the driver's door that continued all the way to the rear bumper, and the rocker panel was bent and pushed all the way beneath the car's undercarriage. Both hubcaps on that side were missing, and the rear bumper was pulled away from the body. Mud and grass and field debris, like chunky chocolate pudding, spilled from beneath the undercarriage. I was looking at extensive bodywork that my insurance company wasn't going to like!

I got back behind the wheel again and removed my jacket. Two minutes outside and it was soaked. I decided not to look for the hubcaps. I needed to get back and take care of Greg … and Cuddy. I guessed I needed them right now, a lot more than they needed me.

I turned the car around at a wide place down the road, and started back toward Princeton. The wheels were out of alignment and the steering wheel shimmied at any speed over fifty mph, so I kept it down, but steady. Even in this bad weather, traffic buzzed around me like the Volvo was up on jacks!

My car was probably like an old horse … on its way to the glue factory … but I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally pulled up in front of Greg's place. I was still shaky inside, and my heart was still in my throat. I said a silent word of thanks to whatever powerful entity had allowed me to live long enough to get home …

… and I grabbed jacket and briefcase tightly as I walked up the steps, bound for House's front door.

It was 4:30 p.m.

Oooo0oooO

84


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Midnight Vigil"

I stepped inside the apartment door and shook the raindrops out of my hair. The gesture made me about half lightheaded and I blinked the room back into focus before dropping the jacket, car keys and briefcase on the couch.

The place was dark, mostly, except for the small light near the piano, but I was already walking in the other direction, past the closet door, past the radiator and the hallway table on the left and the bookcase on the right, and moving directly toward House's bedroom.

Lisa Cuddy was leaning over the bed on the far side of the room, her face hard, eyes glinting in the dim night light in the corner. She was clearly undecided about the next course of treatment, and her eyes closed with relief when I appeared in the doorway and looked down at him.

I took one look and saw the pallor of his skin, the set of his face, what I could see if it, half buried in the pillow. I also saw the awkward position of his left leg, and I realized what was going on. I swallowed hard and took the syringe out of Cuddy's hand, still poised in the air, glanced at it and shook my head.

"No!" I whispered urgently. _"Ten_ milligrams!"

She tried to argue with me at first; tried to tell me he'd already refused the five-milligram dose. I turned my eyes hard upon her, trying to make her understand this was not the time for dissention among the ranks … this was _House! _She held my gaze for a moment, and seemed to reconsider. Then she turned on her heel and left, and I knew she would draw up the larger dose I had requested.

I went to his side, ready to lay down the law and force him to listen to me. Then he looked at me with such naked urgency and desperation that the unspoken trust coming up from the depths of his eyes turned my resolve into sorrow, and I could not berate him. He was telling me in the only manner open to him at the moment that he did not want to be addicted to morphine, did not want this drugged existence that was thrusting itself upon him.

I sank into the bedside chair and drew it closer to the bed. I reached out to touch him, but my hand was trembling so badly that I withdrew it before I made contact, afraid he might realize, even through his pain, that I was not very strong myself right then.

"What are you trying to do to yourself?" I asked him softly. I had to whisper because I could not trust my voice to remain steady if I said it aloud.

"You're _wrong!" _he rasped weakly. "I … _ want _a healthy leg. You're _wrong!_"

I watched him becoming agitated, his head moving restlessly on the pillow.

What? 

Was he hallucinating? Was he becoming disoriented with the confusion and pain that ruled his body? Gently, I reached out to touch his face; lay "hands on" in an effort not only to calm him through human contact, but also to get a feeling for body temperature. His temp seemed slightly elevated, and I squirreled that information away for consideration later. He was also moist with sweat, but not saturated, and my fingers sifted back through the coarse strands of silver-in-copper hair. He stilled instantly at the touch on his skin, and I spoke to him.

"What are you talking about?" Softly: as though speaking to a child.

"I _don't_ define myself that way!" he insisted, "… wrong …"

Then he was swept up in the pain again, moving about with jerky, seizing movements, and suddenly I saw something than made my blood run cold. His attempts to ease the spasms in the left leg were being derailed by his flailing hands as they moved about beneath the blanket. I picked up a corner and looked under. Now he was grabbing at the right leg as well.

"Cuddy!" I dropped the blanket and twisted around.

He started violently below me, and I knew he'd sensed the alarm in my voice. I brushed my hand away from his face and settled it onto his shoulder in a soothing motion. He reacted to it for only a moment and then returned to his jerking, fumbling attempts to ease the agony, which had suddenly doubled in the other leg.

I was about to call for Cuddy a second time, but she hurried around the corner and walked up behind me. "What?"

I felt a touch of panic try to infiltrate my tired brain, but I could not let it get a grip. "We've got to do something. He's not making sense, and his brain's going to undo everything we did to control his breakthroughs if we don't get a handle on this pain … _now!"_

Behind me, Cuddy touched my shoulder sympathetically, and I saw she had the syringe in her hand.

I took it with a nod of thanks, and then leaned down again, attempting to refocus Greg's attention on my words. "House! Listen to me! We can't let this go any further … we've _gotta_ do the morphine!"

He was still out of it; still whispering nonsense. "Wrong! You're wrong, Jimmy …"

There was no time to waste trying to decipher what he might be talking about. It could be a hallucination … or the tail end of some strange dream … anything.

"Okay! I'm wrong! I'm wrong and I'm sorry! Really sorry, all right? I'm going to make you feel better now … and I'm sorry I was wrong. So sorry."

I saw his mouth turn up slightly at one corner, and the configuration of his tense body backed off a bit from "frozen hinge" to "broken spring". I used the opening to further assure him. "You'll feel better in a minute … then we can talk …"

I injected the medication into the port and looked over my shoulder to shrug and scowl at Cuddy, still a quarter-step behind.

Talk about WHAT?? WHAT did I just apologize for? 

I handed the syringes to her and grasped House's wrist to begin monitoring his pulse. Did his temp manage to elevate in the short interval since the last time I'd checked?

I placed my other hand on this moist forehead. "He feels feverish …"

Peripherally I saw her pick up the tympanic thermometer we used at night to monitor his temperature without waking him. He was just barely cognizant at the moment, and neither of us believed he could have held the oral one. Cuddy inserted it gently into his ear canal, and when it beeped, she looked at the readout.

"A hundred point four … probably the result of the spasms and the intense pain. If that's it, we'll know soon enough. It should come down as he relaxes."

I pushed back from the edge of the bed. "How long has he been like this?" I did my best to keep the accusation out of my voice, but wasn't sure of my success. I felt as though my world was coming apart along with Greg's, and I wasn't too sure I was making any more sense than he was.

"He's been in some degree of discomfort ever since you left," she told me. "He didn't want you to go in the first place; he's very needy right now. But as I told you on the phone, he was refusing the morphine. I didn't realize how bad it really was until just before you arrived …"

I acquiesced, closed my eyes for a moment. This wasn't her fault. "Cuddy … don't feel bad. Please. You can't punish yourself for his decisions. Been there, done that." I tried to smile, reassure her. It was very difficult.

"Í know just how … formidable he can be. I can't say I'd have handled it any differently."

She nodded, satisfied that I understood, but I knew she still felt guilty for having let the situation get out of hand.

At that particular moment, I just did not possess the energy to keep reassuring her. "Do you know what he was talking about?" About the best I could do right then, was change the subject and hope for the best. My grasp on the here-and-now was nearly exhausted.

"What am I wrong about?"

She shrugged. No help. "I have no idea. He didn't say a thing to me … didn't seem particularly upset …"

I looked down at him again. He was finally relaxed in sleep, thank God. I felt my eyes misting up for about the fiftieth time during the past couple of weeks, and felt just too exhausted to try to hold the emotion at bay.

"When he wakes up …" I managed, "I guess I'd better find out. I could have apologized for anything from ordering Chinese instead of pizza … to voting wrong in the last election. With House, you never know what'll set him off …"

My eyes were about to run over, but I met her gaze without flinching. I saw her really looking at me hard for the first time since I arrived home.

"Home" … "Home" is anywhere that he is … 

"Are you all right?" She asked me, tilting her head and seeing me lose the last vestiges of control.

I swallowed convulsively, and hung my head. "I'm okay now … I think … had a little incident on the way home. My car took the worst of it."

She was alarmed, her focus switching like lightning from House to me. "What happened?"

I swallowed again, stalling for time until I could make my voice work. "Between the rain and the traffic and the wind and my own inattention, I ran the car off the road and ended up in a ditch at the end of a farmer's field. I could have killed a lot of other people … but I guess … 'Someone' … was watching out for me …

"It happened so fast that traffic never even slowed down. I got the car home, but just barely."

I shrugged. Didn't have the heart to tell this tired, wrung-out friend that the trouble had started when I'd grabbed for the cell phone. My worry for her and for Greg and what was going on at the apartment, combined with my own fatigue, the thumping pain in my wrist, and poor judgment, caused me to lose control of the wheel just long enough to cause a _very_ close call.

I looked down at my ill friend, so glad to be back to him.

I looked across at my other friend. No longer just my boss, and felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Cuddy went into "Mother Hen" mode right after that. I took a last look at Greg, fast asleep beneath the blanket, legs and face both relaxed and comfortable, and the tears ran unabated down my face. This time I didn't mind. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and I realized Dick had been right.

I wondered what House would have to say the first time I allowed him to observe me bawling like a little kid.

Smiling to myself, I followed Cuddy out of the bedroom and closed the door softly behind me.

She gave me tea. Apple and cinnamon, and the aroma took me away blissfully to some other date and time where there was sun and green grass and the tinkle of a concert piano flitting through my mind and comforting me.

I sat on the couch with my fingers laced about the hot mug. I was dirty. I smelled bad, and my eyelids felt like twenty-pound weights. I remember Lisa covering me tenderly with a blanket, touching my cheek with the tip of a finger. She saw my swollen hand and her eyes were full of questions. I pretended not to notice.

Greg has a lot of thinking to do. Both of us have a lot of talking to do. He's going to wake up sore and probably confused.

We'll handle it.

Right then, I appreciated the comforts of the moment. When I closed my eyes, I knew that sleep was not far away, and I thought of Scarlet O'Hara.

"Tomorrow" would be another day!

Oooo0oooO

89


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"The Morning After"

I thought I was hearing bees buzzing.

Buzz … then nothing. Another buzz a couple tones lower … then another silence. Then the original buzzing for a couple of seconds, and nothing again! I blinked my eyes hard a couple times and listened more closely.

Voices! Not the buzzing of bees. People talking. Funny: the sounds rolling around inside my conscious mind weren't all that different!

Where was I? It was completely dark within my tiny circle of existence, and for a moment I was disoriented; lost inside the unfamiliar territory of my own suddenly vacant head. What a strange sensation. I sat up quickly.

Whoa! That was a mistake! 

The room swam in a nauseating whirlpool … as though I were sitting on a piano stool and spinning. I'd pushed upward with both hands, trying to get my bearings. I was still on House's couch with a light blanket over me, but I'd also done something nasty to my injured hand. I winced sharply and grasped the wrist with my right hand, hissing a curse through my teeth.

Wow! Damn! 

My right hand met loosely woven cloth … not skin.

What? Where's my watch? Oh yeah …I switched it to my right arm. 

The present came slamming back with a hard dose of reality, and I remembered the night before. _Had_ it been the night before? It was still dark. I played with the loose weave between thumb and forefinger for a moment, and then remembered that Cuddy had talked me into letting her examine my hand. She'd clasped my wrist between gentle fingers and rotated the joint carefully. It had hurt like hell, and I remembered her saying something about a possible sprain.

She disappeared for a few minutes, and I almost went to sleep during that interval. Then she was back with a tube of Mentholatum Deep Heating Rub and a battered 2" Ace bandage. She plastered the smeary stuff onto me and wrapped the bandage firmly. The heat it gave off and the support it offered were comforting.

She didn't say much, but she didn't have to. It probably wouldn't have sunk into my foggy brain anyhow. But I remembered her being beside me … and then not.

I woke up a little more and looked around. It wasn't quite as dark as I'd thought at first. The little light near the piano was on, casting a very dim glow upon the room. Down the hallway I saw the nightlight was on in the bathroom, which House always kept burning so he wouldn't break his neck if he had to get up at night.

And there was a sliver of light showing beneath his almost-closed bedroom door. The intermittent buzz of voices was emanating from there. Cuddy and House.

House! 

I was off the couch quickly, blanket dropping to the floor. I didn't bother to pick it up. House was awake. And talking! I turned on the floor lamp and paused a second to bring up my hand and look at the time. Only 8:45 in the evening? It had seemed much later than that.

As I approached the bedroom door on silent bare feet, I heard Cuddy's voice. Low and reassuring: "Of course I'll stay. I was pretty much planning on it anyway."

I pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked in. "What's this about staying?" The sight of Greg House, still looking drained, but alert and comfortable, made my heart jump in my chest, and I didn't care if he saw that fact mirrored in my face. He was even sitting upright against his mound of pillows.

He turned his eyes toward me, and I saw the twinkle. "I asked Cuddy to stay the night." He said. "We'll have a sleep-over … you _sleep_, and she will take _over_!"

I shook my head, even though I couldn't stop the foolish grin I felt spreading. "Nuh-uh! You wore her out today. She needs to go home and get some real rest. I just had a nap, and I feel much better."

I saw him look pointedly at the ace bandage wrapped around my hand, and thought:

Uh-oh … here it comes.

"What happened, Jimmy?"

I held it up purposely so he could dispel his curiosity. "This? Nothing at all. Cuddy's trying for her Girl Scout badge in first aid. She was practicing on me. Good job, huh?"

Peripherally I saw Cuddy's open-mouthed expression. Her dark blue eyes were aiming sparks in my direction, but nothing in the world, at that point, could have taken away my good feeling.

"That's not true!" She said to House. "His car skidded off the road in the rain, and now his wrist is not only bruised, but probably sprained too. But not to worry … I examined it and decided he's probably going to live."

I shot Cuddy as much of a dirty look as I could muster, which wasn't _very_ … and looked back at House to be sure that the news of my little fender-bender wouldn't upset him.

Greg said nothing, just held out his hand and wiggled the fingers, indicating that he wanted a look at it. So I walked around the bed and sat down carefully at his side. Presented my "injury" for his scrutiny. His look was serious as he reached for me, and I was put in mind of the time he'd broken his own fingers and I'd been so consumed with guilt I'd been almost afraid to touch him for fear of injuring him further.

His touch on my arm was tender and kind, more so than I'd expected. He rolled it over and probed, equally gently, scrutinizing the dark bruising extending down over the base of my palm. There was a definite tinge of regret in his eyes as he released my arm. "Cuddy's right, you know. You have a sprain. Does it hurt?"

"Not much." I lied. "It's had a chance to rest awhile. It'll be in the way for a few days, then that'll be it."

"Probably not a fatal injury," House agreed, keeping his features stern. "It's your own fault for not being right-handed like the rest of the world! If you were, this would only be a minor inconvenience." His eyes wandered appraisingly over the rest of me … rumpled, sweated, dirty, and dog-tired. "Any other damage?" He finally asked.

I was unreasonably happy he was being sarcastic about the whole business. I saw the relief in his eyes when I shook my head in the negative. "Nope … not to me anyway. The old Volvo's gonna need a little work though, I'm afraid …"

House looked away for a moment. His voice was deceptively low when he continued. "Cars are easy to replace … and this clinches it! Cuddy stays."

They dispatched me to the shower.

"Get going!" They said, almost in unison.

"I'll rebandage your hand when you get out," Cuddy said.

"There's a new Ace bandage on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet," House told us both.

"I'll get it for you when I come out of the shower," I said to Cuddy, "so you can finish practicing your first aid …" and didn't give either of them any further argument as to whether or not I'd need it.

After that, I … in their words: "Got!" And … oh my God! That hot shower felt so damn good …

… and it felt even better to be home!

I languished in that hot steamy enclosure for more than fifteen minutes, letting the hot water cascade over me in rivulets and soothe my weary shoulders and droop my hair down over my eyes to the point that I couldn't even see through the dark curtain of soppy strands.

I stood leaning against the side of the stall, clasping one of House's "handicap grabs" with my good hand while watching the hurt one swell like a kid's balloon beneath the hot water, and wondering why I didn't even have the sense to ice it instead of broil it.

I finally got out, squeaky clean and smelling of Irish Spring; dried what I could reach of myself with my right hand and let drip-dry what I couldn't. Gingerly, I slipped into one of House's old tee shirts and an ancient pair of gray sweats, and returned to the bedroom, feeling like a very clean, wet dishrag.

Greg and Lisa were talking in low tones, and when I showed up, they took one look at me and smiled at each other. I tried to hand her the Ace bandage from the medicine cabinet, but she took one look and shook her head. "I'll rebandage that when it comes back down to room temperature!"

I scowled at her, but refrained from comment. House merely raised an eyebrow.

"Dinner will be here in a little while," Cuddy added, probably to break the sudden silence. "We'll eat … _all_ of us will eat …" looking pointedly at House. "And then I'll fix your hand, help you get the 'kid' settled for the night, and go catch a rest myself. Sound okay?"

"All except the 'kid' part," House interjected before I could reply. "It's Saturday night, and the 'kid' wants to stay up and watch wrestling!"

I wondered if I could derail him from that one, and I looked at him with a few daggers included in the stare. "But then Cuddy won't be able to rest," I reminded him.

His mouth twisted to the side with displeasure for a moment, and the silly expression did make him look a lot like a kid. Then his shoulders hunched with concession. "Oh, all right. TiVo it for me then, willya? John Cena's gonna try to be kickin' my boy Edge into next year … can't miss that."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

Was he serious? 

"Yeah, we'll certainly TiVo that 'can't-miss' moment for you. When you get back to work, remind me to raise your salary above minimum wage so you can afford a TV for the bedroom."

"Don't want a TV in here. Rumor has it that it cuts down on other activities …" His eyebrows waggled and he leered at Cuddy, blue eyes shining.

"And you'd know this … how?" Cuddy asked him with utter disdain in her voice.

"I don't!" He shot back. "I _said_ it was just a rumor. But I _would_ know … probably … if you'd just stop turning me down." He waggled the eyebrows again, but she just smirked at him and shook her head.

"That's my cue to get the pizza ordered," she said to both of us, and somehow she was looking at me as though searching for some tiny indication that I might be siding with House.

I combed my face of all expression and stared back at her. Maybe it was something in my eyes that told her I was stonewalling for all I was worth. She scowled and walked out of the room, saying something or other back over her shoulder that sounded a lot like like:

"… you sprain your damn hand and then you get in a hot shower and boil it like a lobster! You two would do just about anything to get out of a little work …"

I couldn't be sure that was exactly what she said, but I believe I was a little insulted.

I looked at House. House looked at me.

We grinned, but we didn't dare let her hear us laughing.

A few seconds later he was silent again, leaning his head back against the pillows. From the look of him, he was still feeling the residual effects of the morphine. He didn't look especially pained, but I watched him with a raised eyebrow as he wilted gradually. "I'm just gonna close my eyes until dinner gets here … if no one minds …"

I sat down on the end of the bed, below the tent his feet were making beneath the blankets. "That's a great idea," I told him. "But this time, try to skip the bad dreams, okay?"

His eyes snapped open and he frowned. "What're you talking about?" He looked a little worried.

I was instantly sorry I'd mentioned it. Maybe this wasn't the time to say anything about his strange behavior and odd ravings when I'd first arrived home. "Nothing … forget I said anything! I guess when I was napping in the living room, I had a dream that _you_ had a nightmare. Kinda complex. Pretty boring. I'll tell you later … it can be your bedtime story." I made a joke of it and let it drop like a hot potato.

Fortunately he let it drop also. He must be more tired than I had realized.

Cuddy stuck her head around the doorframe to let us know the pizza was ordered, but a finger at my lips silenced her when she saw that House appeared to have dropped off. I rose from the bed and walked silently out behind her.

Thinking of the suddenly quiet bedroom, I wondered if that had been the end of it for him this evening … pizza or no pizza. Knowing how the man's mind works is sometimes a disadvantage though. I had slipped up and mentioned the word "nightmare," and if I knew him at all, he was lying there feigning sleep in order to wrap that gigantic brain of his around one more enigma along this recent pathway of pain, and endeavoring to figure it out.

Dammit, House! 

In the living room, Cuddy handed me two more ibuprofen and a small glass of water. My hand was throbbing all the way to my fingertips and she manipulated it carefully, watching for reactions.

The swelling had gone down considerably, but I wondered if she was speculating whether something might be cracked or broken. I knew it wasn't, but Cuddy wasn't much at hiding worry.

She massaged the deep heating rub into the ligaments laying shallow at the underside of my wrist, and then down across the palm where the bruising was darker and the slightest pressure hurt like crazy. It felt very good, and the balm was already heating below the surface of the skin, easing away some of the pain. She wrapped it firmly in a figure eight and admonished me to keep it elevated.

I pretended to be a patient instead of a doctor and let her "mother hen" me. It was very nice to be tended to by someone who really cared.

The pizza arrived just as she was finishing up.

I sighed.

Oh well … 

Oooo0oooO

97


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Cruising Through the Hinterlands"

Damn the voices in my head!

And damn the icy fingers closing around my heart …

I was going to go back to House's room … check on him for the thousandth time, but paused at the entry to the hallway as I saw Lisa Cuddy in the chair, programming the TiVo to record those wrestling matches he'd been whining about. She saw me hesitate and looked up just long enough to shoot eye-daggers at me, then return to what she was doing.

I raised my eyebrows … I think … waiting for her to say something. She had that attitude about her that meant a serious conversation was about to ensue … or rather, _she_ would be doing the conversation part … and I would be doing the listening part.

Mostly.

She finished with the TiVo, stood up and smoothed her skirt. Tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen.

_Uh oh!_

She led and I followed.

She wanted to talk about Dickinson's voice file, something I had hoped to avoid as long as possible. Wasn't gonna happen. Halfheartedly, I told her that the reason I'd agreed to take the first shift with House was so she could get some sleep. She looked tired beyond measure, and another hour of technical conversation would be difficult for both of us.

To my utter surprise, she agreed with me. Told me to go ahead and go in with him awhile, and while I was doing that, she promised to rest. I thought I was getting a reprieve, and I turned eagerly for the bedroom again. But I should have known she wouldn't let it go that easily. She reminded me that we needed to do this … for House … and she'd hit my soft spot and I knew she was right and I was being intensely selfish. Again.

Cuddy had a knack for being right about things like this. I knew she'd heard me confess to Dickinson all of the mean and callus things I'd done in the past to my supposed best friend, and she would probably like to hear more about my short, guilt-filled confessions to Dick about them.

I hunched my shoulders and started across the living room and down the hallway without a word. I could feel her eyes following me all the way to House's inner sanctum.

When I pushed his door open and walked in, he looked as though he'd been waiting for me. His eyes lit up for a moment, and he licked his lips, gathering momentum to say something that was going to be hard for him. I noticed all the signs and held myself rigid to keep from giving away that I knew something, probably goofy, was coming up.

"Meant to tell you …" he began hesitantly … "breakfast was … uh … really good this morning …"

I frowned.

_What??_

"Uh … House? I didn't make breakfast this morning, and you didn't _eat_ breakfast this morning. Other than that though … thanks for the … ummm … compliment?"

He grimaced. "Meant yesterday morning anyway. The … eggs? Really good … and you did a good job cleaning up the kitchen."

_Okay, that's it! This is off the wall, even for House!_

I leaned forward a little, looked closely at this strange friend. I was wondering whether I needed a thermometer … or maybe a straightjacket.

"Are you dying? Am _I_ dying? What's with the proclamations of appreciation all of a sudden?"

He glared at me with an exasperated scowl. "Just tryin' to tell you that it's … rad. Really rad! What you've been doing. Everything! For … uh … me."

_Oh God!_

I could feel the laughter welling up inside … feel it consuming me like a wildfire consumes underbrush. I could feel its heat rising to my face, and I bit down on my tongue and looked down at the floor in the most concentrated effort of my life to not let it overflow. I succeeded in swallowing most of it, but some vestiges must have escaped around the edges.

"Are you laughing at me?" He demanded.

He looked indignant, vulnerable and endearing, and my fond recognition of his clumsy efforts helped me regain a shred of self-control.

"I was just trying to say thank you … but if you don't want me to …"

When the laughter finally escaped, I absolutely could not hold it back any longer. "Sorry, House … I guess I'm just punchy. You want to thank me? Quit saying 'rad', okay? No one over the age of forty … well, thirty … should use that word. Stop, and we'll call it even."

He was still glaring at me, trying to decide whether or not I was making fun of him. He looked _so_ "four-years-old" at that instant. I just wanted to hug him … but of course I refrained from giving in to the urge.

I let the laughter flow again, and just shook my head at him. "Really! Don't say it again and we're even."

He wouldn't let it go. "I _like_ that word!" He grumbled. "Makes me sound … hip."

That statement, naturally, only fed the amusement, and after a few moments it became contagious. House began to laugh too, and visibly relaxed. He'd let me know, in his own convoluted way, how he felt … and I had to admit that that was (pardon the expression): _rad!_

After that, we continued to talk together, and laugh together, until I finally saw House's eyelids begin to droop, and I could see he was genuinely content and even comfortable.

I decided not to bring up his enigmatic statements from awhile earlier. Why ruin the mood? It looked to me as though his sleep would be restful and dreamless.

I began to back away a little and allow him to sleep. I still had to deal with Cuddy and the damned voice file. I turned off the light, closed House's door softly and started for the living room and _her_ … and _it_.

Cuddy was awake and waiting for me. She had the laptop set up on the coffee table. I couldn't miss it, and she was not going to let this go. I looked at it and sighed and groaned inwardly. I guessed I'd just have to listen to it again. With effort, I combed the consternation from my face and sat down beside her on the couch. I wished I had something strong to drink!

The first thing she wanted to know was if I had talked to him. I hemmed and hawed around, but her eyes grew hard for a second, and I knew I wasn't about to get away with less than the truth. I took a deep breath and admitted that what I'd said in there, and what House had said in return, had been not much more than banter between old friends.

I told her about the tongue-tied efforts House had made to offer a genuine thank you for what I'd done for him over the past month or so. Cuddy smiled while I was relating the conversation to her and rolled her eyes.

"Should'a warned you he was gonna do that," she admitted. "He told me this morning he would do it. I think he was actually _worried _about you. He yelled at me because you were so worn out! In typical House fashion he'd come up with the perfect solution. He wanted to have himself admitted to the hospital …"

"Wha-a-at??" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Yeah. He did. I thought that was a little drastic, and I told him so. I suggested he might want to try showing you a little gratitude instead."

I could see the beginnings of a smile curl its way around the corners of her mouth. She continued, hinting around with a touch of sarcasm. "It was obviously … amusing …"

I nodded, still a little touched that he'd told her what he planned to do, and even more touched that he'd actually done it. It must have been pure torture for him. I felt kind of warm inside when I heard her side of it.

"It _was_ amusing … in kind of a 'Twilight Zone' kind of way," I admitted. I could feel my face pulling into a sort of wry look of amazement. "But we both … lived through it."

Then I told her the rest of it, and we both smiled. The big phony! Neither one of us could help caring about the guy.

Cuddy sobered after a few more moments of reflection. She leaned forward and pointed a stylishly manicured finger at the laptop. "We don't have to do this tonight if you're too tired," and she indicated the bandaged hand that I held protectively against my chest.

I shrugged. Better to get it over with.

"No, let's just get it done. You're right, it's important … for him."

She started the voice file, and for an agonizing length of time we listened to my hesitant, weak and guilty voice; Dick's gentle questioning and my less-than-responsive meanderings.

When Dick clicked off the recorder, just before the part where I'd had to admit I'd thoughtlessly walked away from House in agony on the floor of his office, Cuddy reached across and shut off the voice file also.

Here it comes … 

My guilt was firing up the waterworks and I swallowed hard at least a half dozen times. I guess Cuddy noticed, because her eyes were soft with sympathy and understanding. She knew how uncomfortable I was with this, and she was giving me every opportunity to shore myself up to be able to go on.

I met her eyes, but the tears were starting to spill over. I did _not_ want to have to hear myself say those damning words again.

Her hand reached up to touch my cheek, and the back of her index finger wiped away the tear that lingered there. Her expression was one of incredible tenderness, and I could see that her eyes were a little moisture-laden too.

"I think a break is a good idea. I'm going out to make us some tea. Okay?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak for a moment.

I got up from the couch and turned toward the hallway. As she was entering the kitchen, I called to her softly. My voice hitched and broke a little, but I was able to remain coherent. I saw her pause in the doorway and glance back. "I'm gonna go check on him … and hang the next TPN bag."

She nodded and continued into the kitchen. I walked down the long, long hallway.

When I returned, I was relieved that House was still asleep, and Cuddy was back on the couch. Two mugs of steaming apple-cinnamon tea were sending tantalizing aromas from the coffee table. I sat down, lifted my mug and took a loud, appreciative slurp. Hot! Mmmm …

I looked across and saw Cuddy's gaze resting gently, but questioning, straight in line with mine.

"He's still sleeping. I didn't disturb him." I picked up my tea. "I'm … sure you have some questions," I mumbled around the lip of the mug.

She shook her head minutely. "No, no questions. But I do have something to say, and I want you to really listen."

At that moment she went into her: "I'm-the-administrator-listen-to-what-I-say", mode. But under that voice I could also detect a hint of the compassionate "Mother Hen".

She began by revealing to me the details of the up-until-now untold story of House's late-evening visit to her office months before. She'd revealed a sketchy outline of it to me before, but none of the "real" details. His eyes had been red-rimmed, she said, and his voice roughened by desperation and pain. And he had asked for a favor …

I could tell the memories were difficult for her. She sat with her body hunched, hands clasped in her lap and eyes downcast. Shortly after she began, I wondered whether she might be about to break a confidence that House would choose to keep private. But as the story unfolded, I knew that as House's best friend, she needed me to know.

Greg had gone there under a cloak of darkness and concealment, and she was relating it now as though it had been done in broad daylight and under the scrutiny of everyone in the hospital. I held my breath as she continued.

House had asked her … begged her … for an injection of morphine directly into his spine to control the intolerable pain in his leg. She had accused him of becoming a junkie, wanting only the "high" that the strong drug would induce.

When she got to the part where he'd unbuckled his belt and let his jeans puddle around his knees in order to show her the ugly hole in his thigh, and stood pleading, almost in tears, that he could swear he remembered a muscle being there …

Cuddy's face was drained of all color when she admitted to me, at last, that she had injected him with saline solution instead of morphine because she was afraid he was truly becoming a drug addict, and that his pain was out of control, and not real, and mostly in his head.

She admitted, regretfully, that she had never insisted, even after that terrible night, that he be fully evaluated. She should have. He deserved her compassion, not the obvious expression of doubt and the coldhearted administering of a placebo. She had been there, after all, when the original injury occurred … been part of the medical team that treated him like a junkie even then. She was almost overwhelmed with doubts and guilt and self-recrimination, after having doubted the veracity of his pain twice in a row.

"I let House down too, Dr. Wilson," she said to me formally. "You don't have a corner on that market."

I stared at her for a few long moments before finally thanking her for sharing her own struggles with it, and for confiding in me the whole truth about Greg's clandestine visit to her office, seeking relief. We both had many things to regret, but hopefully, we both could also work at overcoming it for his sake, and the sake of his ongoing recovery.

Our tea was growing tepid while we talked, and we drained our cups as she resumed the voice file. My words, and Dickinson's rolled out of the machine yet again.

It was a little easier, this time, to hear myself tell Dick about my callus rebuff of House on the floor of his office … even though at the time I'd feared Greg's sharp tongue if he'd known I'd witnessed even a second of his vulnerability …

And then we were past it, and past the feelings of shame and the regrets and the terrible guilt, and Cuddy was still reassuring me that she had initially done the same thing to him. She assured me that the things we had done, did not make us right … it just made us human. And we spoke of the burden of being human as something we weren't very proud of sometimes.

Yeah! That's for sure …

We stopped the voice file again as further revelations were uncovered, and eagerly resumed our conversation where we'd left off.

We spoke of Dick's warning that House was literally _"programmed to fight us"_ … and the further realization that the three of us, through all these travails in our growing solidarity, were indeed becoming a family of choice … self-created and self-defining, and self-sustaining.

One of the _better_ aspects of being human …

Cuddy resumed the file.

We listened to my giddy self-proclamations as the "Number One House Fan" …

that House wasn't just the selfish bastard he presented to the world, but there was so much more to the living, breathing person behind the misanthropic mannequin … and there was so much more to the bold and brilliant mind, the quick wit, the raucous sense of humor … and the way I went on and on about his good points until I felt myself glowing red and feeling like a one-man band at a political rally.

Dick went on to stress the fact that I needed to engage House in a conversation that mentioned his pain as a huge part of his personality, and that the loss of it would sooner or later (probably sooner!) change his perception of himself as his pain diminished. He would experience a period of grieving for that loss and find it disconcerting at the least, and deeply disturbing at the worst. The result might be more lashing out, and more anger while he tried to come to terms with the shift.

Cuddy stopped the recording again. "What happened when you confronted him about this? You didn't mention it, and Dr. Dickinson made it sound pretty important and vital to his recovery. How did House react when you mentioned it to him?"

I couldn't meet her eyes. I had to look away. "I didn't mention it because it didn't happen. His self-view hasn't changed, as far as I can see."

I shrugged and finally met her eyes again. She was frowning.

I couldn't look at her, even as I continued. "Well … Dick brought it up again today … but with the new pain problems, House can't really be grieving at the loss of the old ones, can he?"

Cuddy reached out her hand toward me, but stayed the movement before she actually touched my arm. "Sounds like something that has to be talked out. You're avoiding it, aren't you?"

I still couldn't look up. Still couldn't admit I'd probably messed up again. "I don't want to borrow trouble. When we know for sure what's going on with the left leg, then I'll talk to him … I promise."

Cop out! 

Cuddy looked doubtful, but started the voice file again.

Dick was still reassuring me that it would be okay if House lashed out at me, because he wasn't really lashing out _at me_, but handling the changes in his life in the only way he knew how: with anger.

The suicide thing came up, and my fears along with it. We listened as Dick voiced his belief that House's suicide risk was not high, even though he probably did have a plan in mind. The fact that he did have such a plan might be the very thing that kept him vitally alive and willing to fight.

As the voice file finally came to an end, Cuddy laughed quietly at our mention of a poker game with House a little further into his recovery.

"I want in on that one!" She said with a wink.

When Dick finally asked me what I was getting out of the deal, and I'd admitted that: "this time I wouldn't be losing a brother …"

Cuddy looked at me with a puzzled expression, although she did not ask the inevitable "what brother??" question. I decided she was using laudable restraint.

This time she reached out and actually touched my sore hand gently. I knew she noticed I was lost in thought. I wondered what she might have said if I'd told her I was thinking:

This time the demons won't win! 

I closed my eyes and made a sincere promise to House:

We've come this far, you and I … we'll face it together! 

Oooo0oooO

106


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"Dream On, Little Dreamer, Dream On"

We sat there, both of us, like bumps on a log, filled with the profound aftermath of silent revelation. I think we were both considering what all we had learned from the playing of the voice file and our own confessions of self-discovery afterward. Cuddy's eyes were looking directly at me, but her gaze … well, that was somewhere else entirely; maybe out somewhere beyond the here and now, and into the far "what if?"

I decided if I said anything to her right then, she probably wouldn't hear me anywhere except within the abstract, and only as though I were speaking underwater, or from a considerable distance.

My own thoughts were jumbled and confused. We had been so cruel in our dealings with House's disability, and even more than cruel in our dealings with the man. He was an ass sometimes, but still my friend, and he had so many clumsy ways of showing it that I loved him for it. My flippant attitude in the face of his pain for all those years … and Cuddy's "hard-rules vs. empathy" treatment of him in her office, even when he was at the end of his rope, did not speak well for either of us in the compassion department.

One was supposed to _support_ one's friends … not knock them head-over-heels in their times of greatest need. I was not proud of the things I had done to him … purposely or inadvertently … for so long a time.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and saw Cuddy's eyes refocus and return to the present also. I reached out in absent-minded inattention to pick up my cold tea mug, managed to lift it off the table an inch or two before the injured tendons in my wrist shrieked for mercy and the mug tumbled out of my fingers and landed back on the coffee table with a thump. I winced sharply and grabbed at my sore wrist with my right hand, angry with myself for doing something so stupid.

Cuddy stood up quickly and her hands flew to her hips. "Change of plans!" She announced sharply. "_I_ will be taking first watch! _You!_ Will be taking a couple of Motrin and an ice pack. And a … _nice … long … nap!"_

I know I opened my mouth to argue, but her finger was in my face … right under my nose, and the words died aborning. Everything that happened today had just added to the sense of malaise I'd been experiencing lately, and piling on another layer of muscle soreness that was making it a chore to move around without feeling like an 80-year-old.

I _think_ I thanked her, but I'm not sure. I just knew it felt so good to have someone tell it like it was, and at the same time lift that awesome weight of responsibility off my shoulders. When I finally looked up to say something along the lines of gratitude … or at least appreciation for gathering up some of that oppressive weight … she was gone, and the whole room had taken on a more sublime essence.

I let my eyes slip closed for a moment. Only one moment, in order to regroup, take a deep breath, recharge my batteries and get my thoughts together in one coherent lump.

Just that quickly, I was down for the count. I was like a boat that had floated free of the dock and slipped soundlessly into deeper water, languishing on gentle waves and drifting further and further from shore …

I awoke to the sound of Cuddy calling my name. She was standing beside me with a small glass of water, the pills, and a wrapped zip loc bag of ice beneath her arm. She'd cleared the debris off the coffee table and pushed the coffee table against the couch. Mother Hen had pulled the pile of pillows away from the opposite end of the couch and was settling them, except for one, at the end where my head lay uncomfortably on the hard leather arm.

She gestured in no-nonsense fashion for me to sit up, and she placed each pillow strategically where they would give my back and shoulders and head the most support and the most comfort. She held out the pills and the glass and indicated that I should get on the outside of them! I did. I eased back down, and was lost in billows of comfort.

Without a word, she lifted my sore hand and placed it upon the pillow she'd kept in reserve and settled the wrapped bag of ice against the area that was giving me the most trouble. The coffee table butted against the couch kept it from slipping. Smart woman!

I watched her, half smiling, but letting her gentle hands get me settled like a mother would do for her sick child. For a moment I thought what a great Mom she would have made …

Then all thoughts evaporated, and I was comfortable. The ache in my hand was easing, and I was warm. She must have retreated again, and I felt myself floating off and away … oblivious to both the room, and the world around me.

Oooo0oooO

I don't know why this is … but my unrelenting guilty conscience reminds me of a very young child who takes his first crayon into his grasp. He chooses the black one or the brown one or the navy blue one and makes the heaviest, darkest marks over the largest area of paper that he can cover in the least amount of time. He seeks to show that what he does counts for something in a very resolute way.

That's what my guilty conscience does to me. It lets me know it is there, even if it has to hit me over the head with it.

When I went to sleep, my conscience was right there … hitting me over the head …

I remember floating among dark swirls for a time, almost weightless and drifting like that rowboat that has come unfettered from the pier and pulls away into the current of a very long river. Aimless … heading for the confluence as it is carried quickly downstream toward a larger body of water.

There is an ocean ahead of me. Opening up like a giant maw. It is dark and turbulent, unsettled and primal, of unknown strength, and pulling me toward it with fingers of irresistible power.

I see the danger and I begin to struggle, thrashing uselessly as it pulls me closer and closer to depths I somehow sense will drown me, pull me under and rush onward with no compunction. I will be gone with no trace, and those things which I might have left behind of myself to an uncaring world, unrealized and never missed …

I hear voices in the distance. Sing-song, repetitive as though on a continuous loop. I listen. They are familiar and I struggle again, uselessly. I don't want to hear them. I don't want to hear what they have to say, because they are speaking to me!

"Jimmy! Vital to his recovery …

Vital to his recovery …

To his recovery …

His recovery …

Recovery …"

"I _want _a healthy leg …

Want a healthy leg …

Healthy leg …

Leg …"

"You're wrong about me … wrong about the pain … and the pills!"

You're wrong!

You're wrong!

You're wrong!"

_House!_

I heard myself screaming back at him.

"You need to blame everything on the leg! Your whole identity is wrapped up in it!

_Everything _would have to change if your leg were healthy!"

"A change I'd be _happy_ to make if it were healthy!

_Happy! Healthy!_

_Happy!"_

"No you wouldn't! Being miserable doesn't make you different … it just makes you _miserable!_

_Miserable!_

_Miserable!"_

"I was sure wrong about one thing … you're sure-as-hell _different!_ You can't blame _that_ on your misery! Take away your pain, and you lost the built-in excuse to be miserable and ignore the rules the rest of us live by!

Live by!

Live by!"

"You _took_ away my pain, Jimmy … and I still hurt! Same old song … different leg!"

"Because you have to hurt, House! You _have _to hurt! It's who you are!

Who you are!

Who you are!"

His voice, ragged with untold fury, comes back to me like an echo in a canyon.

"NO!" 

The scene changes: Cloud formations undulate, convolute and roil inward.

We are in his office at the hospital.

The rest of the place is deserted. Cavernous … dark …bleak! The only light is over House's bookcase by the window. Even the streets are dark.

He's turned from me, hunched forward in his chair. _That_ chair.

"My pain _is_ me? That's it?"

I am suddenly frightened and I don't know why.

I've lost the fight to escape my dream-turned-nightmare. I'm pulled into it further and I look closely at House's face as he turns toward me.

"So the leg is who I am? I _am_ my pain?" His face is contorted, his voice maniacal.

I cringe in fear as I see his hand stray toward the marbleized wrought iron mortar and pestle near the corner of the bookcase where it has been since he moved into this office.

"House …"

I see him pick up the sixteen-ounce pestle and weigh it in his hand. "Then it would follow that _more_ pain would define me better, huh? Don'cha think?" His voice is becoming shrill. Not quite sane. I see him lift the pestle and slam it down on his left quadriceps … hard … and again.

"Oh God!"

I try to get to him. I'm the only one here who can help him. But although I'm running flat out and my legs are churning on the carpet, I'm not able to get any closer. His left quadriceps muscle is gone, beaten to a bloody pulp, his entire thigh a gaping, oozing crater …

I scream for help, to no avail. We are the only two here. It's up to me!

I reach a tentative hand toward the wound, and watch horrified as the ruined muscle turns black and shrivels away at my touch.

House begins to laugh …

And laugh …

And laugh.

I scream … and I can hear my own voice as it echoes in my ears.

Oooo0oooO

I sat up … wide-awake … gasping … shaking with fear, hairs rising at the nape of my neck. I was drowning in my own sweat and my muscles were screaming, my hand throbbing from coming off the pillow and landing hard on the coffee table. I threw off the blanket and pushed the coffee table away with one foot until it skittered into the center of the room.

Back the hallway, I heard House's bedroom door open and I struggled to focus as Lisa Cuddy stood framed in the doorway. Her face was dead white.

Behind her, I heard a sound that froze the blood in my veins.

House was moaning … tortured like a lost soul … and I cringed at the pain of it.

"NOOOOOOO-o-o-o-o …… …………" 

Oooo0oooO

110


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"What I Would Do For You …"

"NOOOooooo!!! …………" 

That sound! That God-awful scream!

It had come from me!

I froze, sitting straight up on that couch before I was fully awake, nerves jangling alarms through me like static electricity traveling the length of a lightning rod.

I banged my hand hard, and a different jolt shot up my arm. But I was on my feet and away, pulling off the Ace bandage, running down the hallway. The Ace was too tight … and my skin, way too cold … and there was nowhere to put it, so I slung it around my neck and it dangled there as I skidded to a halt at House's bedroom door.

Lisa Cuddy was standing there, alarmed, looking toward House, then looking back at me, the apparition from a nightmare that came bearing down upon her like some juggernaut with no brakes. I barreled around her and into the room, setting her aside firmly, and then turning to House, not even knowing what I'd expected.

He sat against his mountain of pillows, tilted a little too far to the right. His look was pasty and his eyes, deep blue holes in his hollow face. His eyes swam toward me, looked down at his blanket, looked across to the wall, then up to the ceiling. He could not seem to keep his focus on anything for more than a second …

I heard him breathe something to me that sounded like: "Are you all right?"

At least he could talk. My labored breathing calmed down a little bit. I looked over to Cuddy while answering him. "Yeah … bad dream. Did I wake you?"

"How'd you know I had a nightmare?" He asked in a ragged voice.

I was totally confused. I started toward him protectively. "No … I meant _I_ had a nightmare … and I … well … I guess I yelled … and you're awake … so I thought …"

He frowned and turned to glare at me. This time he had no trouble holding the focus. "_I_ shouted! I thought I woke _you_ …"

Lisa Cuddy crossed the room behind me and sat down hard in the only chair. She didn't look alarmed anymore, only puzzled. "You _both _yelled!" She announced loudly, and we both looked at her. "The same word. At the same time." She rolled her eyes and lowered her head to her hands in an "I-give-up!" gesture. House and I looked at each other, then at her.

I walked the last few steps to his bed and sat down close to his feet. He watched me, but didn't comment. Again, we looked at Cuddy as she finally raised her head to throw cold blue glances between us.

"You both yelled 'No!'", she said. Focusing on House, she continued. "I didn't see what was happening with Wilson, but before you shouted, you were increasingly restless. And mumbling something I didn't quite get … something about not hitting Wilson …"

"Yeah … I know … I remember." House looked at me with a hangdog expression, something he'd always been oh-so-good at. "I … guess we need to talk." He seemed reluctant, but determined.

I nodded, feeling a little reluctant too, but knowing it was high time to either fish or cut bait. Both of us looked meaningfully at Cuddy, who, bless her, took the hint and made to rise immediately.

Her soft grin of complete understanding made a sweet portrait of her face as she rose from the chair and walked toward the doorway. She paused there and looked back, still smiling like a mother whose children were being bribed to kiss and make up. "I'll … just go do something useful, since it's one o'clock in the morning. Are you both okay?"

I nodded. I think Greg did too. Anyway, she was gone, and we heard her footsteps diminish down the hallway.

I slid off the bed and took her place in the chair at his side. He was shifting again, uncomfortably, against the pillows. His right hand was flat on the edge of the mattress, arm stiff, trying to settle himself into a better position. I rose again and walked over to him, grasping both his upper arms in my hands and lifting his body to the left and back. In a moment he was straightened again. I took his hands and placed them in his lap, squeezed the right one lightly and let go. He was now propped with his back and head against the pillows. His skin looked almost the same color as the sheets.

Ahhh … House … 

I would have backed off, but I needed to check the leg. I raised a corner of the blanket on the pretense of straightening things, but he clasped my wrist firmly, staying it, and causing me to hiss through my teeth.

He let go quickly. "Sorry … but I can read your mind …"

"May I do a quick check on your leg?" I said. "Please."

He reconsidered for a moment, then, to my great surprise, began to undo the strings on the old scrubs to allow me access. He pulled them down over pale, white skin until the thigh was naked before me. I marveled at the trust he had managed to summon in order to let me do that.

"Punctures still bothering you?" I asked him, knowing instinctively which territory I was allowed to cover, and which not. The tiny bruises were slowly fading, but the muscle was so tight it almost felt knotted. I did not press down on his skin with any more than minimum pressure, but he still winced when I touched the rise of the big quadriceps muscle.

"A little," he said, finally. "Nothing I can't live with. It's getting ready to go into spasm. That's why it's so tight. Nothin' to worry about … I'm getting used to it."

I looked at him as his face began to distort with the beginnings of the spasm, and pulled up the pant leg quickly so I could rearrange his pillows yet again in order for him to ride it out. It was going to be a nasty one. "You shouldn't _have _to get used to it," I told him. "We need to talk about that too. You're in pain … we treat the pain! You know as well as I do, we monitor your doses … and allowing the pain to go untreated could cause problems with the right leg too. Tell you what … the muscle needs another twenty-four hours to recover from the trauma of the EMG, right?"

I saw him nod cautiously as his pain began to accelerate, and I knew he was wondering at the same time, how it was he knew he was going to lose an argument we hadn't even begun yet.

He was pressing back against the pillows, hurting badly. The muscle in his left leg was beginning to disturb the blanket, his pain increasing. "Here's the deal." I told him. "Let us use the morphine for another day … lowest possible doses … and I'll give you a fair chance to ride out the spasm first. But I won't watch you suffer! Got it?"

He nodded, a choppy thrust of his head. "Guess that's almost fair …ahhhh … but I want it on record that I … OW! … God!"

He couldn't help it. His body curled protectively around the left leg, and even through his haze of agony, he could still appreciate the irony of the lousy timing.

I was biting my lip, watching silently, my hand splayed on the middle of his back. In his pain, he probably wouldn't even feel it. Just as I was deciding to give him the morphine at that moment and deal with the consequences later, he began to rock with agony beneath my hand. I hear him gasp his equivalent of "uncle" between clenched teeth.

"Can't … take … it …"

I backed away from him and went for the syringe, got it ready to inject into the port. "It's okay!" I said to him quickly. I pushed the medication with dispatch. "We'll soon know what's causing this, and we'll treat it. Things will get straightened out, you'll see. You made the right decision."

I felt as though I were talking to a small child. I disposed of the syringe and sat down on the edge of the bed close by his side. I leaned over his hunched shoulders and rubbed his back lightly with one hand.

As he slowly began to relax and sit up again, I encircled his skinny wrist with my fingers, and silently counted the rise and fall of his chest. He leaned back again into the pillows, and I could see him trying to straighten out the leg beneath the blanket. I helped him move it to a tolerable position on its pillow and ran my fingers gently along his shin bone and down onto the calf. The muscles relaxed by degrees. If the lower ones were letting go, then the upper ones were easing off also. I did not, however, touch his thigh.

We sat quietly for long minutes. I looked at his face, noncommittal. He looked at mine in the same way. The way friends sometimes look at each other when understanding goes far beyond mere words.

He finally spoke, and I was very glad I'd waited him out. "Guess I'm ready to have that talk now. You?"

I nodded. "Yeah." Now that the crisis was over, I could feel tightness and throbbing in my injured wrist. Somehow I sensed it had been that way for awhile … I had just been too busy to notice it. Now it was getting even with a vengeance. I held it up and looked at it. My fingers were bent toward the palm. It hurt to move them.

Greg saw me poking at it. "Shouldn't have taken the Ace off," he said. "Too soon. Makes a lousy necktie. I like your green one better …"

I looked down at myself. The Ace was still dangling around my neck like a dead snake. "I forgot," I said. "It was too tight. I'm gonna grab some ibuprofen and maybe another ice pack. Be right back."

"Can I help?"

I looked across at him, half stunned. He wanted to do for me, and I was touched beyond measure. I held my hand out toward him and he examined the discoloration and small patch of swelling with fingers as gentle as a woman's. He was actually tickling me, and I wanted to laugh out loud and scratch at it, but held as still as I could, lest like a butterfly in a meadow, one false move and it would fly away forever.

He turned my hand over and straightened the fingers part way. It hurt, but not as much as I thought it would. He placed my hand on the bed beside him and waggled his own fingers in the direction of the dilapidated Ace. I pulled it away from my neck and handed it over. He took a minute to roll it, smooth out some of the creases, then picked up my hand again.

I sat very still and watched him. It was like a revelation. He actually _had_ a bedside manner. A wonderful one. I wondered if it was due to the effects of the morphine.

Probably!

When he finished his sloppy rewrap job and handed my arm back, I flexed the fingers and took note that it was neither too loose nor too tight. I felt good. Almost normal. The throb had diminished and I was at a loss.

When I looked at him and he took the chance and looked back in return, his demeanor had turned clumsy again, and I saw him shrug slightly. The welcome lapse into an alternate universe was over, and the Greg House I knew and loved … and would often like to slap silly … had returned. "Never was too good at that kind of stuff," he said dismissively, indicating the bandage, "but I think it'll be okay for awhile."

"It's better than okay. It feels much better. Thanks." The big lump in my throat made further speech impossible.

I left him sitting there and went out to get an ice bag before the old waterworks started up again. I didn't need this. Not now.

In the kitchen, Cuddy was cleaning out one of the kitchen cabinets. Food stuffs and gadgets were piled in a gaggle all around her. "Old family tradition," she said as I approached. "My mother used to do this when I was little. If she couldn't sleep, she cleaned kitchen cabinets. Said she did her best stuff at 2:00 a.m."

I grinned at her and shook my head; reached up to open the freezer door … with my bad hand. Cuddy saw the bandage. "You're wrapped again! Whaat?? Do it with your teeth?"

I looked down at the unique wrap job and smiled in agreement. "It was House. He saw me poking at it and offered to rewrap it for me. Didn't want it to be too tight this time."

Cuddy shook her head, as surprised as I was. "Well," she said, "It won't win any awards for neatness … but it's providing adequate support. Let's just leave the artist's work undisturbed, shall we?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Pretty amazing, huh?"

"You two are both pretty amazing!" Cuddy told me. "I heard just a few snatches of you talking him into using the morphine. Impressive! So now, would you like to tell me a little about those nightmares?"

I looked across at her and got ready to head back to the bedroom. "We were just getting ready to get to those. First, I guess I'd better take some ibuprofen … Dr. House's orders, y'know!"

Cuddy's chuckle was rather sexy, and low in her throat.

Just before she turned around and went back to her cabinet cleaning, she handed me the bottle …

Round Two … comin' up!

Oooo0oooO

114


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"Giddy Up Little Nightmare!"

I walked back to the bedroom with my little bag of ice in my hand and a growing sense of resignation in my head. I knew I was being a coward about it, especially after my glowing assurances of a few minutes before. I was going to hate rehashing my nightmare with House, or trying to find a gentle way to tell him about the vivid mind pictures I had of him beating his one good leg to a bloody pulp.

I walked through the open doorway into his bedroom with a load of excuses in my mind for getting out of it, or at least putting it off until a more reasonable hour. Then, as though in answer to a prayer, I saw that I had gotten a reprieve. House was asleep. He looked peaceful, face relaxed and not pinched with pain or rigid with his extraordinary methods of privacy and control.

I stood watching him for a minute, heaving a deep sigh of relief. I was glad he'd been able to return to sleep so quickly, and unreasonably happy that telling him about my unsettling dream would have to be put on "hold" yet again. Prolonging the agony?

On the other hand, I was a little curious about what he might have to say in return; what the reason could possibly be that would have caused him to shout out loud about hitting … or _not_ hitting … me! Well! That had to wait also. Putting off the inevitable!

The platitudes that were suddenly swimming around in my brain were becoming more diverse and more and more plentiful. "Excuses" was probably a better word!

I turned off the light and left him to whatever dreams lurked in his complicated mind this time. Leaving the door open behind me in case he awoke and needed something from one of us, I retraced my steps and returned to the kitchen and the company of Lisa Cuddy.

She was still fiddling around with the piles of junk she had pulled from the cabinet, but turned when she heard me approach, rattling the bag of ice that I had yet to place over the bandage on my wrist.

I spoke before she had a chance to say anything about it. "Will you please go lie down now? He's asleep … and trust me … I don't feel much like sleeping after that experience."

She sat down on one of the counter stools and turned to look up at me. "What experience? What'd you dream about? It might help you to talk it out …"

I thought about that for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of spilling my guts about the images of House trying to destroy his only healthy leg. Maybe it would help dilute the horrifying details I'd imagined so clearly, and reduce the power of the chilling illusions if I attempted to paint some kind of graphic picture to another person. If there were one human being I knew who would be able to handle the gory details of what I would describe, it would be this no-nonsense woman beside me.

I started to speak, beginning with a stumbling recitation of seeing myself from a distance … trying to talk to House about the effects of the diminishing of his breakthrough pain. I then segued into his litany of bitter accusations and maniacal laughter … then the grabbing of the pestle … and his insane mutilation of his remaining thigh muscle …

I guess Cuddy saw my eyes go unfocused, and she realized I was about to lose it. The next thing I knew, her hand was reaching across the counter, her warm palm settling gently atop my wrist. I must have kept on rambling for a few moments longer, because the next thing I was aware of was her fingers squeezing the Ace bandage just a tad, bringing me to the edge of pain, but not quite over the threshold.

I stopped talking as I started feeling the pressure. I had no idea where I had been going with the aimless narrative, but she had evidently heard enough. More than enough! She must have seen the sense of helplessness and the terror still in my eyes and flashing across my face. I sat with my mouth hanging open, staring dumbly into the distance.

When she spoke to me at last, it was very slowly, each word enunciated clearly. "I'd like you to call Dr. Dickinson and discuss this with him. Please. And when you're finished, I'd like to speak with him."

Her eyes were full of question marks. Had I heard her? Had I understood? It was clear from her expression that she didn't know.

I nodded, having heard her words only in the abstract. "I'll do that … first thing in the morning …"

"No!" She said. She stressed the word, drew it out until she was sure I'd understood what she was saying. "You'll do it now!" There was suddenly a cell phone in her hand, and I had no idea where it had come from. I looked down at it as though I'd never seen one before in my life. "You said he told you that you could call him anytime … night or day. I think this warrants taking him up on that. Do. It. Now!" She was allowing me no quarter. No wiggle room. No way out.

I knew she was right, but my sense of resistance was high. I started to shake my head, processing words of denial, and beginning to back away. She was insistent. The phone in her hand seemed to jump toward me as she thrust it sternly in my direction.

I took it from her. Her eyes were dark, full of compassion. Determination. I could not hold her gaze. "Will you stay?" I asked softly.

She nodded.

I pulled Dick's card out of my wallet where I'd stashed it after I got out of the shower earlier … _much_ earlier. "It'll save me from having to repeat it all to you later on …"

I shut up and punched in Dick's number.

He answered after the fifth ring … and I knew right away that I'd awakened him. But his voice was warm, a little concerned, and immediately attentive, even to the lethargic mumblings of some idiot from New Jersey in the middle of the night.

I started hesitantly, but relaxed into the narrative once I got going. I told him about the strangeness of the evening, and my own _stranger _reactions to it … and after relating most of the details I could remember, I found myself beginning to feel a little better about the whole thing.

Dick picked up on the center of my agitation right away. I didn't have to go into minute explanations. "You're pretty concerned about his other leg, aren't you?" He asked, coming straight to the point. "Are you worried that he might be exaggerating the pain? Or using these new problems to avoid dealing with the old ones?"

Dick's bluntness shocked me into full wakefulness, and out of the fuzzy cocoon of my own denial.

"No!"

_What was I saying about denial?_

I also shocked myself by yelling at him. In pure psychologist fashion, he had jolted me back into dealing with the reality that was facing all of us. I curbed my anger and continued, suddenly aware of the renewed prickling that coursed through my nervous system. Why was I so upset?

"I'm absolutely certain there's no exaggeration! He may actually be underplaying it! And I've already told you … he's been responding very well to the loss of the breakthrough pain."

Dick's voice gentled down at once. He had brought me quickly to my senses by taking two bare wires, representing my biggest concerns, and touching them abruptly together. Sparks had ensued. Now he must take the time to insulate one of them at a time.

"I only ask because your dream indicates to me that House is actually capable of harming himself physically. Or … he may indeed be having problems with a different perception of himself."

I wanted to argue, rail against those words I didn't want to hear, but at the same time I knew he was presenting me with the only truth that seemed in the least plausible. Reluctantly, I continued to listen as he took up again where he'd left off. "James! I'm going to suggest to you _again_ that you stop putting off that conversation with him. And I'm concerned about you too!"

"I'm fine, Dick," I told him. "Nothing a couple of nights' sleep wouldn't cure. Once we have a diagnosis on the other leg, things should settle down around here. I just have to hang in, I guess. I do appreciate your take on all this … and I'm really sorry I woke you. Talking with you really seems to help."

All I could think of at that moment was getting off the phone and slinking off to a corner somewhere to lick my wounds. And chastise myself for not having the courage to confront Greg about his, perhaps unrecognized, problem with self-perception!

Across from me, Cuddy was holding out her hand for the telephone. I thought of shaking my head in a "not necessary" gesture, and then realized that denying her the chance to talk to Dick would be just one more grasp for denial on my part. I sighed.

"My boss, Lisa Cuddy, is here with me, Dick … and she'd like to speak to you."

I knew he was going to ask for my formal permission to discuss the case, but I assured him that she'd been with me the whole time, listening to my end of the conversation. "You have my full permission to speak openly with her, Dick … and thanks …"

And I handed her the phone.

She didn't have anything to say that surprised me, particularly, although I thought she seemed far too concerned with my state of mind. I didn't mean for her to be so worried about me that it interfered with all the other things she had on her plate.

When she started to tell Dick about my lack of sleep and my reluctance to take a break from caring for House, I started to shake my head at her to get her to stop. But she turned her back on me and kept talking.

_Damn!_

Then I caught a few words about "a mild tranquilizer" … and I was sure she hadn't meant Greg!

"Not necessary!" I broke in loudly. "Not interested!"

She turned and looked at me sideways over her shoulder and ignored me again. I heard her thank Dick for his time … and the rest of the little pleasantries that people do with each other when speaking on the phone with a total stranger for the first time …

Then she hung up and turned to me with a conspiratorial smile on her face.

"Here's how it's gonna be!" She had the nerve to say to me … and she looked me right in the eye. "Lorazepam, 0.5 milligrams during the day. As necessary … but at least one dose. And one milligram at night."

I tried to protest, but her finger was in my face again, even as I opened my mouth to say something she had no intention of listening to in the first place. "Don't even _think_ of trying to interrupt me!"

I shut up. What was the use? I sighed, prepared to hear her out.

"You need to sleep. Your stress levels are dangerously high. If you don't listen to me, I'll have no choice but to tell House what all this is doing to you!"

_Cuddy … you wouldn't!!_

I was pretty sure she was bluffing, but I didn't dare take any chances. If she ran to House and squealed to him about me, it would probably disconcert him beyond measure. "You wouldn't really risk upsetting him like that … ?"

"Don't bet on it!" She snapped at me, and her blue eyes were blazing. "At those doses, the Ativan won't knock you out, Dr. Wilson … it won't keep you from hearing him if he needs you … it'll just take the edge off and make all this a little easier. And that'll enable you to go on being there for him."

"You'd really tell him if I refuse?" I still wasn't sure if I believed her.

"In a heartbeat!" Her expression was determined, and I was no longer willing to believe it was just a bluff. I couldn't take the chance where Greg was concerned. Reluctantly, I conceded to her wishes, even if only in my mind for now.

I felt a little trapped … and a little closer in empathy with him … this must be how he felt when we didn't bother to consult him … or worse … just blatantly ignore his feelings on any subject. I became more determined to use a little more sensitivity in the future.

_I'm with you, Buddy. This stinks!_

Cuddy was watching me. Calculating which direction I still might decide to go.

"You don't play fair!" I told her, and the words came out as whiny as House had ever sounded. I wondered if he ever sounded that way to himself. Surely …

I broke eye contact with her and got the distinct impression that she was intensely aware of my every thought. Cuddy was the boss for good reason!

"You leave me no choice," I told her. "You win." The contest was over … if there ever was a contest.

"I'm gonna go check on him … maybe just sit there with him for awhile." I left the kitchen before she could respond.

I entered his bedroom and closed the door gently behind me. I wanted this to be private.

I wanted to lick my wounds and do some thinking … not only about what Cuddy had just said to me, and which I resented, even though I realized she'd had my best interests at heart. But I needed to think about Dick's words too.

Somehow, I felt I was losing the battle to let Greg down easy. Maybe my soft-heartedness was getting in the way of his recovery, and my empathy for his pain and misery pushing us both forward from the wrong end of the spectrum.

I moved over to the bedside chair and eased down. My wrist protested and I grunted unexpectedly. Damn!

But House didn't move. He was sleeping deeply, his breaths coming in soft buzzing noises, rather like a big house cat with a full belly and a warm place by the fire. The little night light by the bedside table threw a soft glow across his shadowed form, giving him the look of slender grace, rather than fragile illness, and I warmed to the sight of him, comfortable, as always, in his presence.

Even when he was in one of his angry or pissy moods, I was comfortable around this man. He was an extension of myself; the bolder, snarkier "me" that I kept mostly hidden from the world because the cloak of it looked so much better on him.

I found myself smiling, even against my will, and I whispered to him in the darkness. I just couldn't contain myself:

"I'm sorry about the morphine thing … just had the tables turned on me … and it's not much fun, is it? But I did what I had to do, and I guess that's how Cuddy feels too.

"Yeah, I'll forgive her in a little while … not that she needs it … and I hope you'll forgive _me_ …"

I leaned my head back against the back of the chair and let myself drift slowly away. My legs ached. I came to again, just long enough to kick off my shoes and lift my feet up on the edge of the mattress, close to the spot where Greg's made little tents in the blanket …

The world around us dissolved into oblivion for awhile … and if there were dreams, I wouldn't remember them this time anyway …

Oooo0oooO

122


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"

I'm so tired!

There are whispers. I close my eyes for a moment … and I'm floating.

Not in a body of water, but in the stratosphere high above the Earth. I feel a little like a feather, aloft on currents of air, weaving in and out of treetops, skimming across green meadows and soaring high to the pinnacles of existence, able to look down on rivers and oceans and plateaus and mountaintops. I see the cascading waters and the deep refreshing cool of the pine forests. I hear the calls of nocturnal creatures as they settle in for sleep, the song of humpback whales in their watery habitat, and the warble of a meadowlark as she builds her nest.

I am the new warmth of the early morning sun, the soft touch of the breeze, a breath of clean, fresh air. I have no substance, no corporeal body, only a mind, _three_ senses and an overwhelming joy of exaltation. There is a part of me that is human, and a part that is still a fragment in the Great Spirit's imagination as he prepares to inhabit this wondrous world with whatever it is that I shall eventually become.

Then I become. And … 

I am a man. I am walking in a meadow. I have _five_ senses. It is early in the morning. The full moon is at my back, the rising sun on the horizon far ahead of me. I do not question the anomaly. There is a forest of tall green trees in the distance, and daisies growing in profusion all around me.

To my right there is a stream of cold, clear water, teeming with the sleek bodies of darting fish, and rushing over rocks and stones, twisting and turning with the curve of the land. I can hear the song it sings as it plunges on in its endless journey to some far-away sea.

To my left is a fencerow, deftly fashioned by a meticulous hand; smooth, round river biscuits piled intricately by some long-ago artisan, and woven into nature's tapestry of grasses and wild berries. Someone has passed this way.

I can hear the scurry of small wild animals in the underbrush, and I smile at the skittering of their furry bodies and the scratch of their small claws in the soil.

As I walk on, the breeze parts my hair and caresses my cheeks like the warm hands of a lover. I am dressed in casual attire, and I recognize myself as Twenty First Century Man. I am in blue jeans. White shirt; sleeves rolled to the elbows. Brown penny loafers with no socks. I have a watch on my wrist, a row of pens in my breast pocket, coins jingling in my pocket, and an anticipation of something important about to happen that makes the hairs on my arms stand at attention and gives me a strange happy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I quicken my pace and the grasses part before me, the daisies scatter their slender white petals across my path, and the crash of the waters across the rocks pounds in my ears and in my brain.

The moon is waning; the sun rising ahead of me, giving off a shimmer that lifts the veil of shadows from the edge of the field of daisies that meets the dusky coolness of the deep forest.

Something is happening … 

Far in the distance I see movement at the edge of the woods. There is a quivering of tree branches, and a rustling on the forest floor that I can hear. Distinct. Still far away. Footsteps. But they are familiar to me.

I squint my eyes, endeavoring to see, to make a distinction. There is a figure emerging from the trees. Cautiously. Graceful hands thrust outward, parting the branches and the green leaves.

I am still too far away to discern facial features or other identifying characteristics. It is a man, and he is tall. He steps away from the wall of dense growth and moves on into the field where I am still walking in his direction.

I tilt my head forward, curious but cautious, one foot in front of the other, wending my way toward him while he approaches me in the same manner. We move closer still, and I can see that he is not only tall, but almost willowy, limbs long, stride confident and powerful. He too, is wearing blue jeans. Dark blue running shoes … dark tee shirt with a strange logo.

We close the distance between us. I can see his face. He can see mine. His features are sharp: thin face with classic bone structure, high cheekbones with a clean-cut jaw line. I see a wristwatch on his arm, a big one with a dark band. His arms are bare, lightly furred and muscular. His hips are narrow, his legs long. His slender waist curves upward to a powerful chest and wide shoulders.

He appears to be in early middle age, his chestnut hair shot through with strands of silver, his face weathered, but not unkind. And when we approach and stop in front of each other, standing face to face, his eyes are of the clearest cerulean blue, intelligent and piercing, and filled with lively humor.

I smile. He smiles.

I say: "I have a friend who looks like you."

He says: "And I, you."

We stand facing each other, and nothing happens for a moment.

In the distance then, another figure emerges from the tall grasses of the field of daisies.

Smaller. Tiny, in fact. We turn and watch. Shining black hair, just beyond shoulder length. Petite features, white teeth, eyes like the blue of the depths of the ocean.

She approaches us boldly, striding with poise and confidence. She too is wearing jeans. Black boots … a striped blouse with billowed sleeves, red and white. She is wearing a silver bracelet on one slender wrist, a silver chain around her neck. There is a talisman on the chain with a caduceus in bas-relief. She moves steadily in our direction, watching both of us with a discerning eye and a half smile on her sweet face.

We stare. We know her. We smile in return.

She stops in front of us. Looks at the tall one. Looks at me.

"Gregory? James?"

"Lisa!" … in unison.

She is our sister; we are her brothers. We belong together. The fit is exact. Our last action is to turn back to the field of daisies, Lisa in the middle, the two of us tall ones flanking her, our arms protective about her slim shoulders. We embrace, and in that moment our corporeal images begin to fade, become wispy, and then slowly swirl out of existence. We cling to one another happily, our shadows shortening before us, until those finally disappear too, and the vision of it all fades away into the whisper of the wind … and the field of white daisies … and the blue of the midday sky …

I wake up.

I knew I'd heard whispers in my dreams, but they are only echoes now …

I am in the chair beside Greg's bed. I am covered with a light blanket, and my hurt wrist, propped on a pillow I did not place there, no longer hurts. I sit up and clear my throat. I look around. The sun is shining and the room is warm.

Gregory House is propped against his pillows. He looks across at me, and smiles. "I had this weird dream," he says …

… and I laugh. And the dream goes on …

Oooo0oooO

124


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"The Search for Truth: You _Can_ Get There From Here!"

As I look back on it now, I am enjoying all the benefits of twenty-twenty hindsight. I'm smiling to myself at some of the truths we uncovered about our friendship, and the many admissions that we didn't intend to make, but which came out anyway during the frank and revealing verbal sparring match we had awhile ago.

I sit here by myself at the keyboard of Greg's baby grand, wishing with all my heart that I could play this beautiful instrument. The apartment around me is quiet. Lisa is running errands and Greg is asleep again. He is still fragile, and it is the best thing for him.

The thoughts in my head right now are like revelations that would translate into some really nice music, if only I were talented enough to allow them freedom through my fingertips. But I'm not.

I'm not! And that's too bad, for if ever there was a piece of music begging to be written, it's this one that I can hear inside my head, but can't share with anyone else because I have not the means.

Still, the memories are fresh, and they swirl in my consciousness as I sit here with a foolish smile on my face. My clumsy fingers are poised over the keys, touching the whites in a light manner and imagining Gregory House's nimble fingers in their place, bringing forth the magic, played skillfully and in time.

They are both in my thoughts, these two people, and my foolish smile is reminiscent of these memories … of all of us … clumsily caring and shyly Bohemian in our stumbling honesty as we sidestepped around each other.

I am, after all, the proud owner of this reminiscence, and that gives me artistic license, right?

It was a little after eleven this morning, I think, and when I rose from the best sleep I'd had in a very long time. I could smell the tantalizing aroma of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling in the pan, and suddenly I was ravenous.

I got up, fully awake, and walked to the bathroom to do … you know … then stuck my head into House's room to check on him. He was deeply asleep, curled on his side with his face toward me, both hands tucked beneath his chin. The blanket was thrown off and tossed aside. Both his legs were splayed on the mattress, neither of them on the pillows that had supported them when he'd finally gone to sleep last night. The right one was straight, as he almost always keeps it, even when asleep. The left one was bent slightly at the knee, his PJ leg hitched up beyond his white, white calf.

I remember grinning at our salt-n-pepper-haired four-year-old, shaking my head like an indulgent father, and backing out of the room to keep from disturbing him.

Lisa Cuddy was in the kitchen, whacking at a bowl of pancake batter with a table fork, a curl of raven hair dangling in her eyes and humming some show tune or other I couldn't quite place. Surprise Number Two! First: House curled on the bed like a little kid. Now my boss in blue jeans and an old blouse, very little makeup, and no jewelry! She looked almost good enough to eat, but of course I kept that thought to myself.

"How can you possibly look that good with no sleep?" I asked her. I had my fists on my hips and I leaned forward as though I really expected an answer.

She looked up from her Suzy Homemaker efforts and smiled. "By my calculations, I managed to get about four hours … more than _you've_ been getting some nights. And that reminds me …"

She fished an amber pill bottle from her purse on the butcher-block table. I was chagrined to see my name on the label.

_Oh damn!_

She held the bottle in front of my face with thumb and two fingers. No mistake about what she intended. "These are the 1mg Ativan I brought that first night. Next trip, I'll bring some 0.5 tabs, but in the meantime, cut one of these in half and get started!"

My eye roll and audible groan did absolutely no good in the protest department. She muttered something about me being just as much of a kid as Gregory House, and as is her habit, she thrust the thing under my nose until I had no choice but to take it. "I was … sort'a hoping you'd forget about that. Later, okay? I just got up. I'm rested."

This time I got the glare she so often used on House, and her small fists planted themselves on her hips, mirroring mine. Was she toying with me?

I gave my best "stage sigh", tipped the bottle and let one of the little beauties fall into the palm of my hand. I cut it in half with the paring knife on the table, crammed half of it back into the bottle, and crossed to the sink. I turned on the cold water, popped the crescent into my mouth, cupped both hands under the water and took the thing in the same manner as a prospector drinking from the stream near his claim. The sagging Ace bandage dribbled water onto the floor. "Happy now?"

Cuddy watched me to be sure I wasn't going to palm the thing, and then shook her head at me. "Aren't _either_ of you two capable of taking pills the traditional way? You know … a cup … with water in it … that whole thing?"

"Real men swallow 'em dry!"

We straightened, startled. House stood in the doorway, leaning over the cane. He had the IV pole clasped tightly in his left hand, using it for further support.

I know my mouth was hanging open. Cuddy's also. But Greg appeared to be navigating pretty well.

"Ibuprofen?" The sharp blue eyes missed nothing. "That wrist still hurt?"

I was about to swallow my tongue. A glance to my left showed Cuddy slowly sidling back toward the kitchen counter, effectively blocking his view of the bottle of lorazepam.

"Just a little achy," I blurted, managing to stall him. I held up my bandaged hand and waved it in front of his eyes in a further effort to distract him. "It's fine. And where's your chair?"

"It's not _my_ chair!" He grumbled. "And I suppose it's wherever you two left it last night when you conspired to get me to eat my supper in bed."

"It's in the living room," Cuddy interjected at that moment, and I was grateful for her further effort at distraction. "If you gentlemen would kindly go in there, I'll get our breakfast together and join you."

Fortunately for her, things were to the point where she could make good on the offer.

We both watched as House executed the turn without difficulty, and I watched his gait closely as I followed him back to the living room. "You're doing pretty well there," I said softly, and was a little worried about my tone of solicitousness. It couldn't be helped. He worried me. "How's the left leg feeling?"

"It was starting to tighten, and I think that's what woke me. Thought I'd try and walk it out." He didn't look at me, and I figured he didn't want to see any looks of disapproval that might show up on my face. I was careful to keep my expression schooled to neutral at first, but the more I thought about it, the more upset I became.

He lowered himself carefully onto the couch, released the cane and the IV stand.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't yell at him, but his last reply had floored me. I reacted in exactly the manner I'd promised myself I would _not_ do. "You thought it might spasm? But you got up anyway? Damn it, House! We thought you were still sleeping. What if it _had _spasmed?"

I didn't know at that moment if I was really angry or just plain scared. Scared, mostly, I think. I just knew I was totally disconcerted. I found myself pacing and lecturing and gesturing like a Dad yelling at his kid. "Don't ever do that again! What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

I knew I was over-reacting. _Knew it!_ Some part of me was already sorry for losing it like that … but I just couldn't stop myself. My fear of Greg really injuring himself was taking over my reasoning, and I continued to rant.

"If you'd fallen, we might not have known. You _enjoying_ this? A little game for you? 'Let's see what I can do today to freak 'em out!' That it?"

I could hear the panic in my own voice and was powerless to contain it at that moment. Oh God … what would I have done if he had actually fallen and hurt himself again? My mind could not assimilate the possibility.

"I said … is that it?"

He didn't answer me, just sat there on the couch, hunched and miserable. When I took a good look at his face, I was immediately ashamed of the desperate state my fear had thrown me into. He didn't look angry. Or hurt. Or even defensive. He only looked sad … maybe even concerned for me.

I bit down on my lip.

_What's the matter with me? I blew up at Cuddy yesterday … now House?_

Bitterly angry at my total lack of restraint, I whirled away from that characteristic puppy dog expression that tore at my soul, and came face to face with Cuddy, hanging silently in the doorway. She'd heard the commotion and come over to check.

I was battling the waterworks again for all I was worth, and feeling like a blatant coward. Except this time it wasn't just for House, but for Cuddy as well. I knew I had to do something before I lost it completely in front of both of them.

I said: "Excuse me …" and I fled past Cuddy, into the kitchen. "Give me a minute … please?" I had to pull myself together quickly. I must not throw away all the progress we'd been making up until now. I could not be responsible for acting like a total ass again!

They gave me the privacy I needed in order to collect my senses about me and pull back all the wild, rampaging emotions roiling inside my brain. I paced around the confined space of that small kitchen like a caged lion. I knew my uncontrolled actions were causing me to ruin a pleasant meal and making a shambles of an important interlude between the three of us.

They didn't need this. Neither of them! I could hear their voices in the living room, speaking in low tones, worried, but not intrusive. If I ruined breakfast, Lisa would probably even offer to make another one.

I picked the Ativan bottle off the counter where she had left it, and wrapped my hand around it. I had amends to make. I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out slowly and turned back toward the living room.

They stopped talking and turned to me as I entered. Cuddy was obviously surprised to see me with the Ativan bottle, but Greg only seemed a little curious. I raised the bottle in my hand as though making a toast.

"You were right," I told Cuddy. "You were right, and I apologize. I should never have doubted you. The one I took awhile ago seems to be kicking in right now … and I've gotta admit, it's making it a little easier to think … Unhhh … thanks for knowing what I needed when I … uh … didn't."

Cuddy smiled, shrugging one shoulder a tad, and I saw a tiny return of the Mother Hen with a tiny twinkle in her eyes. "Not a problem," she told me softly. "Believe it or not, I do understand. I just want to help." Her tone of voice was warm and accepting and forgiving.

I wasn't sure what she meant by that: understood what? Was she inferring something happening between House and me? I chose to ignore that part of it, and realized at the same time that it had been easier than I'd thought. And then the "House" thing came back again and hit me in the stomach. I knew I hadn't hurt her the way I'd hurt _him _… my Stubborn Hero. I owed him so much more than just an apology. I couldn't blame him if he didn't understand … didn't want to forgive me. And _that_ was what Cuddy understood.

I turned to him, almost afraid of what I might see. "I … need to talk to you too … if you're willing to hear me out."

Cuddy rose, knowing something private needed to be ironed out between us. "I'm going to get back to breakfast … which is going to be lunch if we don't get to it soon …"

I appreciated her offer to leave, but I stopped her before she got to the doorway. "You have every right to stay. This is a family matter."

Cuddy shook her head. "No … this is between the two of you. You can handle it … and you both know where I am if you need me." She walked into the kitchen, effectively leaving Greg and me face to face with each other alone.

I walked over to the couch and handed the pill bottle to him. I watched him study the label a few moments, and then he handed it back. He said nothing, just studied my face in the same manner he'd studied the bottle: noncommittal.

He was making me nervous, and I found myself tossing the damned bottle hand to hand, much the same way I'd often seen him do with that fuzzy ball he keeps on his desk at work. "No snide comments?" I asked him. I stood there awkwardly, not meeting his eyes. He still said nothing, and I sighed heavily, setting the bottle on the coffee table.

"Sit down!" He finally said. His voice was low, but totally in command of the situation. I did as he asked. I took my place on the edge of the couch, well away from where he sat, then hunched sideways to look at him.

I pointed to the pill bottle as though it was a snake, sitting there ready to strike. "First … that nightmare I had last night … I called Dickinson, and he and Cuddy decided it would be a good idea for awhile if I took a few of these things. I … uh … disagreed. Then Cuddy threatened to tell you that I wasn't handling all this very well … and I … felt trapped. She knew I … wouldn't risk upsetting you … and even though I knew she was right … I didn't like being coerced."

And then came the real stickler: "Afterward, I realized that's what I've been doing to you all along. Like giving you the morphine last night … it wasn't fair."

I finally had the guts to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, House … I was wrong to do that to you."

He looked at me, finally, meeting my gaze for only a moment before looking away again. In that brief moment, I saw a softening in the blue eyes that assured me he wasn't angry with me. "Was Cuddy wrong to do it to you?"

I shook my head, knowing what he meant by his question, and giving him the credit I knew he was due. "No. I wouldn't have cooperated any other way, I guess." _Like someone else we all know and love! _ Though I didn't say it aloud.

His tone lightened. "Yet, now you're telling me about it … so you're either over your fear of 'upsetting' me … or you decided I can handle it. Which?"

_Damn his didactic bent!_

I kept my voice earnest. "I really don't know. Guess I'm still afraid of upsetting you, but it's not right to expect you to just endow me with blind trust, and not be willing to do the same for you. So … I'm gonna _have_ to believe that _you'll_ still believe I'm capable of caring for you and making the right decisions about your treatment."

Uneasily, I watched him grasp each leg in turn and lift them both up onto the coffee table. He then laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the backrest of the couch. "Last night?" He began. "My nightmare was a rerun. Been seein' it a lot lately. You keep telling me I've got my identity wrapped up in the leg … the pain … that I've redefined everything by it. You keep hammering away about that … and by the end, I'm ready to punch you out."

He hesitated momentarily, and I saw the ghost of a smile appear. "Always manage to wake up before I smack you …" His eyes shifted to the ceiling, his ending remarks addressed to a crack that ran the length of the room. "Last night … just barely made it though!"

I didn't feel much like returning the smile. I wasn't quite sure whether or not I was being patronized, so I hesitated a fraction with my reply. "At least yours is understandable … you had to work pretty hard to convince me about your pain, and it stands to reason you'd still have some doubts. I do believe you though … sorry it took me so long … sorry there's still some question in your mind."

He shrugged. "I'm getting over it. I _want_ to get over it. If I can't trust you, then who _can_ I trust?"

He was still studying the crack in the ceiling. He didn't want to look at me. Didn't trust himself to look at me for fear that I might still be judging him. I wasn't, but neither was I all that certain he could swallow that fact whole yet.

I lowered my eyes from his face and continued cautiously, still watching for some physical reaction. "Anyway, I'm … unhhh … not ready to tell you about the rest of my little experience with the night demons. I know that's not fair … but I'm still not sure I've processed everything yet. When I'm ready, I'll let you know, okay?"

He nodded, finally let his gaze lower again from chandelier height. I thought for a second that he might actually leave it alone. Then he spoke again, softly. "Must'a been pretty bad if it made you call the shrink …"

He let the sentence trail off expectantly, and I felt his eyes on me again. There was a hint of fascinated curiosity in the "not-quite" question.

I got honest. I met his eyes and held them captive. It was the first he had actually looked me in the face for a long time. That was progress! "It was a frightening experience. Upsetting. And I'm asking you please … respect my word that I just can't go into it yet. But … part of it was … feeling like I was the only one available to help you … save you. That's not true, I know, but … well … Cuddy and Dickinson think I've … uh … been putting too much pressure on myself … and they think I could use a little chemical help for awhile."

"They're right!" He barked. He intensified his gaze, and this time it was he who pinned me in place with daggers of blue. "Trust your doctors, an' don't give 'em a rough time! Just makes it harder on them. Just look what I've done to _my _doctor!" A thrust of his chin indicated the bottle of tranquilizers. His hands came down from behind his head for emphasis.

"One more thing about those pills." His tone turned very serious. "You be careful with 'em! They're addictive … ya know? 'specially if you're just takin' 'em for fun!"

I know my mouth dropped open, and I knew he enjoyed that fact beyond all logical reason. I saw his wry smile … and the absolute forgiveness … and the emphatic folding of his arms across his chest, effectively putting a "period-paragraph" to any further argument.

Then I got the smirk and the follow-up crinkling of his scruffy face that told me the conversation … or whatever the hell it had been … was at an absolute and complete end.

I sighed and tipped my head sideways in a gesture that figuratively knocked over my king and gave him the checkmate. We both acknowledged our traversing of the treacherous waters we'd just crossed together.

And that was the moment Cuddy chose to bust through the kitchen doorway with a breakfast tray almost as big as she is! There was a smile on her face … triumphant and much relieved … and both of us knew her grand entrance was no coincidence.

House lifted his legs one by one onto the floor, and the tray landed on the coffee table in their place. Cuddy grabbed a pillow from the couch and plopped it down on the floor on the other side. I straightened and sat forward. I was really hungry, and this feast was fit for a king. (Maybe the one I'd theoretically knocked over in Greg's favor).

The three of us dug in and mopped it up in a very short time. Conversation, for the next fifteen minutes, became secondary to the munching.

Even the arrival of the courier, the resulting hurried blood-draw, a few snarky comments from House about the lack of macadamia nuts in the pancakes, were tossed aside as the three of us just enjoyed the quiet interlude of each other's company.

And now …

Here I sit at the keyboard of this elegant musical instrument … thinking back over the past few hours. The discarded breakfast dishes are still scattered on the coffee table, and I am pleasantly discombobulated. Thanks, no doubt, to my little corner of "Cloud Nine Out of a Bottle" …

I promised to take care of the dishes … and I will. But for now I am relaxed and content. I have a full belly, a calm mind, and my hand does not hurt. The best of all possible worlds!

I will be very happy when Gregory House is well enough to sit at this piano and play for me … us … again …

Oooo0oooO

133


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"Everybody Lies"

We were all full to the point of exploding. Sated and lethargic, grinning at each other with goofy expressions on our faces, and not an ounce of professional demeanor anywhere to be found!

It had been a great breakfast, and that was putting it mildly! Nobody missed the macadamia nuts.

It looked as though the only one of us with a coherent thought in her head right then, was Lisa Cuddy, who plunked her empty coffee cup onto the mess on the coffee table and turned to Greg and me with a conspiratorial smirk on her face.

"So how's this …?" She began … and the two of us looked at her with raised eyebrows while she waited for us to get our brains in gear to listen to what she was about to say.

When she decided she had our full attention, which wasn't much, she began again. "Since it's Sunday, I'll be receiving a 'call' from House …" and she pointed a finger at him in case he wasn't sure whether it was really him she was talking to … and he nodded solemnly. "I'll be getting a call from House letting me know that Wilson's come down with the 'flu', and he needs IV hydration, so he's staying here!"

She turned to me with the same serious expression on her face, as though suspecting that I too, was totally incompetent to understand what she was saying. I frowned and fixed her with an owlish expression of my own, and had the distinct feeling that now she was sure of it. "We'll give it to you first. That way, when you guys return to work, House'll just have gotten over it. That'll explain your weight loss, and any lack of energy and whatnot."

By then we were both listening to her, and understanding what it was she was talking about. But leave it to House to find the needle in the haystack. "There's a flaw in your plan," he announced archly, and there was a tug at one corner of his mouth. "A little 'flu' won't keep Cameron and her version of chicken soup away from here …"

"Oh yeah it will!" Cuddy argued, not letting him get anything like the upper hand. "After I point out that you both got your flu shots and appear to be suffering from the hybrid version … and I issue orders that no one is to come within a mile of here … they'll all get the message. I'm even planning to tell 'em that if you weren't both doctors, Wilson would have to be hospitalized.

"Then, as he makes his 'recovery', it'll be your turn!" She shifted a look in House's direction. "We can make yours even more dramatic!"

While she spoke, I took notice that House was suddenly clouding up. His eyes were darting furtively, and I could almost hear the little wheels inside his head as they ground out something he had thought of in contradiction.

"What with the hydrocodone suppressing your cough reflex, you're at high risk for influenza pneumonia … and that could buy us a few extra days if we need 'em." It was quite clear that Cuddy was pleased with her plan for keeping the hype under control at the hospital.

I nodded in her direction. "That's perfect! That hybrid version's been taking people out for a good two weeks … and some of 'em were winding up having to be hospitalized. We're going to be able to carry this off. Good going!"

The only one of the three of us who didn't seem quite as enthusiastic about the subversive plan was, of course, House. As a matter of fact, he had suddenly turned downright glum.

I noticed, and then Cuddy noticed. "Find another flaw?" She asked him.

He didn't answer right away. His interest had disappeared quickly. Something had taken its place and was gnawing at him. When he finally spoke, it was with his face averted. "Didn't hear anything in there about how we're gonna explain away this left leg … kinda hard to hide a wheelchair if you're sittin' in it!"

His vulnerability was really bothering him, and I looked at him with surprise. "We'll have a diagnosis on that in a day or two, and we'll treat it. It won't even be an issue by the time we go back. You know that."

"I _don't _know that," he hedged, "and neither do you. None of the preliminary results found anything. Not likely the final results will find anything different."

Cuddy and I realized immediately that he'd been giving this a lot of thought … and while he'd never admit it … it had him worried. Cuddy gentled down her voice and approached it from the compassionate-doctor angle. "If the final results don't show anything," she said, "that's good news, you know. A minor injury. Long gone by the time you return to work. Sometimes these things happen. Nothing ever shows up in the tests, but the symptoms are severe. Then it clears up as mysteriously as it came. We don't know why, and we don't have all the answers. It just … happens."

Greg looked up, and I could see he was beginning to get angry. "Forgive me if I don't get any reassurance from that 'relax and trust us' speech. Last time I bought into that garbage, I walked out of there with a third leg! Almost didn't _walk_ out at all." He grabbed the cane from beside the couch and slammed it to the floor for emphasis. We both winced at the sound … and the memory. We both looked helplessly at each other.

I had to think a moment before I finally realized there was actually an up side of what had just happened.

Greg had been far too accepting of everything that had gone wrong in the past several days. This was the first time he'd shown any indication of fighting back. I remembered what Dick had told me about House actually lashing back, and that he actually saw me as a secure sounding board, and that I needed to be there for him when it happened.

While I was busy trying to decide on the right thing to say to him in return, I began to notice that he was rubbing absently at that left thigh. Then the gesture became more focused, and Greg was looking down in dismay at his leg.

He was about to panic. "Would somebody bring that chair over here?" His voice was hard and commanding. "I'd like to go to my room … alone!"

The opportunity was there. Right then. I had to take a chance … a big one. It was time to find out of all this trust stuff was going to pay off.

Cuddy was already on her feet and heading for the wheelchair, but I held up my hand, palm out, staying her. "That's all right. I'll get it for him in a minute. Would you … please … would you mind going out to get a Sunday paper? Please?"

Cuddy was fast. She stopped in her tracks and made an about face. Picked her purse off the table in the corner and started for the door. She was out the front door and gone before House was even finished glaring at me.

"What the hell was _that_ about?" He snarled. "I want the wheelchair! Now!"

I could see he was grabbing at the leg in earnest now; gripping the muscle as it began to snake beneath the skin, in a futile attempt to break the growing spasms.

I rose from the corner of the couch matter-of-factly and moved some of the pillows. "If you think you'd be more comfortable in bed, I'll help you get there. But I don't want you to be alone right now … so I'm staying …"

_I wouldn't leave you now for all the tea in China, _I didn't say.

"Personally, I think you'd be better off right here. Why don't you shift around and lie down, and we'll talk. Maybe it won't be so bad this time … but if it is, it's not a problem. I'll get a syringe ready, if that's okay."

I was extremely careful not to allow a change to come into my voice, even as my emotions began to tug the first vestiges of the old waterworks, and I could already feel the moisture at the corners of my eyes. He was beginning to hurt really badly, and I didn't dare let him down again. I poised calmly, watching him, waiting for his decision, one way or the other.

When House, in his anger, tried to stand, and his legs, one at a time, collapsed beneath him, I did not move to help him as he caught himself clumsily on both arms, then flipped around and sat down in a heap on the couch again. I did not offer any indication of either concern or impatience, even though my heart was in my throat and my body was wracked with its own pain in sympathy.

I waited.

I didn't wait long. He was panting. I could see the surgical dent on his crippled leg through the old scrub pants, and the writhing of the skin on the other one. I wanted to reach for him, but I knew I couldn't.

"Don't patronize me!" He yelled, and I could feel the heat of his frustration in the space that separated us across the couch. He was glowering at his legs as though they were betraying him; first the right, then the left. He had no resources remaining. He had transferred all his fury to me, but I sat there impassively, glaring back. Still waiting.

Then … finally. Finally!

Just as I decided, with despair in my heart, that there were still some walls that hadn't crumbled yet, and maybe Greg's anger and distrust went even deeper than I, his best friend, suspected, I heard him take a deep, shaky breath, and he lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. When he finally lifted it, he looked deeply into my eyes.

"I could use some help here …"

I slid calmly across to his side, not even a hair's breadth away, and looked at him with the empathy of understanding. Quietly, I got up and placed a palm on his chest, forcing him back against the pillows once again. Wordlessly, I lifted his treacherous legs and positioned them both on the warm space I had vacated, with as much gentleness as I could muster. The spasm in the left leg was increasing, and he allowed me full access.

"I'm not patronizing you. I'm asking my patient's permission to help him, medically. If he refuses, I'll respect that … because I respect _him_. And then I'll ask _my friend's _permission to help him … and support him in any _other _way I can. Because I want to be here for him! As his physician, and as his friend. I'll be here either way. Both ways. I'll be here!"

When I finished speaking, I was still locking gazes with this friend of mine.

House took another deep breath and held it. The spasm was building steadily, and speech was an effort. That was obvious.

When he finally found the strength to speak again, his words were sure and certain.

"Your patient trusts you to do what's best. Your friend is …" His eyes closed as the pain built, and the end of the sentence was an anguished whisper.

"… glad you're here …"

Before I stood to the side to prepare the medication, my hand found his shoulder and rested there. "Me too …"

That was all I could manage verbally, but it was all right. My touch and my eyes, even moist as they were, conveyed all the rest.

A half hour later, I took him to his bedroom in the wheelchair and got him settled. I doubted if he would even remember the transition, other than maybe to wonder, when he awoke again, how he got back to bed.

I watched him from the entrance to the bedroom, and then pulled the door nearly closed and retreated back down the hallway.

That's when I came back out to the living room and ignored the mess on the coffee table. I walked straight to the baby grand and sat down on the bench. 

Touched the keys in reverence. Just sat there.

Damn!

There were tears running down my cheeks again.

But they contained no hint of sadness …

And Lisa would be returning soon with the Sunday paper.

Oooo0oooO

137


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"Bedtime Stories"

Looking back on it now, I'm not even sure what it was that got us through that nasty left-leg spasm this morning with our senses intact. I'd seen more than a few of these before, of course, ever since my early memories of House's infarction.

There were days at work when he had done too much moving around, or not enough; days when he had spent too much time on his feet, or had had too little rest the night before. He never knew when the spasms would occur, or what set them off, so he had no way to avoid them or prepare for them. His crippled leg would get the shakes suddenly and make him look as though he had St.Vitus' Dance. The spasms always took the wind out of his sails and the spirit out of his eyes. Sometimes they would catch him unaware when he was with a patient, and this made him avoid people even more than he already did.

I can remember at least twice when I was in my office surrounded by paperwork, only to look up startled, as he burst through my door as though the devil were after him. Without any explanation, or even needing to offer one, he would hop-step clumsily to my couch and collapse onto it, dropping his cane on the floor and gripping his painful thigh with both hands.

On those occasions I would drop everything and hurry to his side, kneeling down to pull his shoulders close. There, in the privacy of my office, he could rest his head in my arms and ride it out in an isolated sanctuary where there was silent support instead of curses and gasps and staring eyes.

I was thinking of his earlier bouts with pain this morning again when the same thing happened with his supposedly sound left leg! We were still at a loss to understand the cause. Together, we decided that I would not inject him with another dose of morphine. We were both scared, but determined to take the chance of him riding it out free of medication. I sat on the edge of the couch and held him tightly, talking in a soft, monotonous monotone, while he drowned me out with a string of colorful invectives that would have put a crack addict to shame.

When that didn't work, I eased him back on the pillows and reached toward the leg very carefully. He nodded his permission and let me begin with a slow massage of the tightly corded muscles, working them and plying them with the palms of my hands and my fingertips. Finally they began to return to a state of flexibility that he could withstand. Wet with his own perspiration, he was still without coherent speech, but nodded his head that the pain was receding, and I could ease off the manipulations.

Somehow, both of us felt as though we'd won a battle in some strange war whose furthest boundaries were still to be defined …

After that, he napped in his own bed awhile, and I sat at his piano.

The rest of the day passed quietly.

Lisa returned with the Sunday paper an hour or so later, and I think she sensed that something positive had happened in her absence. She asked no questions though, and I thanked her as best I could with shared eye contact and appreciative glances.

House returned to the living room later in the afternoon and settled himself gingerly onto the couch. He was still unable, we noticed, to swing his legs up onto its surface by himself, however, and had to lift them up manually, one at a time. He repositioned into his mound of pillows, dropped his cane onto the floor and parked the IV stand out of the way where he couldn't see it.

He was still weak from the spasm, and not very communicative. We left him alone and watched from the kitchen where I'd followed Cuddy in order to assist her with the cleanup I'd neglected earlier, and to prepare for an evening meal.

Greg finally settled himself and pulled the light blanket over his legs. He was not exactly uncomfortable, but still not quite back to normal strength from the unusually violent spasm. He did not ask for anything, but rather ignored us as he sat quietly and channel surfed through every TV station on the dial. He would watch something for a few seconds, and move on to the next.

Cuddy and I carried on a quiet discussion about our choices of cuisine before we both finally agreed on a menu. We ignored him resolutely, knowing that all the hairs on his body were attuned in our direction like miniature RADAR antennas, ready to pick up any hint at all that we were monitoring or patronizing him in any way. We were, however, becoming skilled at ignoring his body language, and finally he settled in and sat watching an old episode of Gunsmoke.

Supper turned out to be baked hot dogs with melted cheese, smothered with fried onions; baked beans out of a can, and crinkle-cut French fries out of a bag. We washed it all down with generous amounts of Cuddy's apple and cinnamon iced tea, and canned peaches for dessert.

House ate well for a change. Our supper ruse had worked, and I thought to myself that were it not for the fact that the meal consisted almost entirely of junk food, he would probably still be sitting there with the remote in his fist, punching in channel after channel and denying that he had any desire whatsoever for food!

The thought also occurred to me that the old saw about using a carrot, rather than a stick, sometimes worked very well with some jackasses! (He looked at me very strangely when I almost choked myself snickering at my own joke!)

After supper, Cuddy drew blood for the evening labs, which she would drop off at PG on her way home. We both took note that House was now resting quite comfortably, and not showing any indication of further problems with the left leg.

As for myself, the curtain of restlessness and body aches seemed to be lifting off me exponentially as House's good humor began to return. By the time Lisa finally had enough of our "guy talk" as she called it, and left for the night, we were arguing the merits of Gunsmoke vs. Wagon Train, and neither of us seemed to be winning.

An hour later, House insisted on getting into the shower. I felt an instant of pure panic, and he picked up on it right away. After a dramatic eye roll, he pinned me with that icy glare of his and muttered something about my "stomped-on puppy dog" look, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself (oh yeah, man!), and it would be so nice to just stand there and soak up that hot water (like you're able to stand upright for more than thirty seconds!) and on and on and on …

So, what I did was walk to the bathroom with him, saw him safely inside, then sat down in the straight chair he kept in the hallway right outside his bedroom door. I removed my shoes and sat there in sock feet to keep him from hearing my restless feet tapping nervously on the hardwood. "On edge" doesn't begin to describe the attention I was paying to every tiny sound emanating from that small room while he was in there. Which was a damn long time! All those banished body aches were niggling right back across my shoulders again!

_House … you will be the death of me!_

The second I heard his hand on the doorknob, I sprang upward and sprinted for the living room in a concerted effort at keeping him in the dark about my worry for his safety. He walked out and headed in my direction with his bottom lip curled smugly over his teeth and his body curled uncomfortably over the cane, with more mumblings about who-the-hell-did-you-think-you-were-kidding? … I-could-feel-the-friction-from-your-feet-burning-the-floor-when-you-ran-down-the-hallway … and I knew without a doubt that he was onto me. But not a word passed between us.

He had combed his hair. No little bristles stuck out above his ears. He had shaved! His stubble was gray, rather than a "roughening coal pile" ... (it made me think of the lyrics to "Gentle On My Mind".) He was wearing a clean set of gray sweats, and he was right: the shower had done him a world of good. All of which I refused to say out loud!

I wouldn't let him get settled back on the couch. Gently, I turned him around and helped him get back to his room, then assisted him in getting settled back into his bed. He gave me a couple of dirty looks, but those were the only protests I got from him. He was tired and washed out, but simply would not admit it.

It looked as though we had both won a couple of rounds tonight. I gave him his meds and got the TPN ready for the night. Then the hookup for the parenteral nutrition … _not_ hot dogs or beans …

I checked the insertion site for the PICC line, and then checked it closer. "How long has this been red?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "I dunno. Cuddy did the dressing change yesterday, and she didn't say anything about it." He stared at the site himself for a moment. "Maybe it's just from the hot water. Doesn't look that bad to me …"

I scowled at him, but he paid no attention. "We'll just keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts to hurt, or if the erythema spreads, okay?" I made a mental note to recheck it in the morning.

He shrugged again and changed the subject. "Hey! I weighed myself … up ten pounds now. Five more, and I'll only be tethered to this thing at night."

He gave me one of his sidelong glances, gauging my reaction. I just straightened up and grinned at him. "Good try! I seem to remember math isn't exactly your strong suit. This one involves double digits, so I'll help ya out here. Ten plus five equals _fifteen!_ If you recall, we're going for _twenty!_ That would be ten plus _ten!_"

"Yeah … I knew that," he groused. "Just checkin' to see if that lorazepam's affecting your memory. Or your math skills!"

"No such luck! All it's affecting is my ability to put up with _you! _And speaking of pills, here ya go." I handed him the Zofran and hydrocodone.

"Speaking of lorazepam," he continued, holding out his palm for the meds I then tipped into it; you taken it yet tonight?"

I felt a little defensive for a second, and almost retorted that I was a big boy now, and perfectly capable of tending to my own meds. But I didn't, figuring it was a pretty good sign that he was at least a little concerned about someone other than himself. I finally answered him calmly. "Not yet, but I'll get to it."

"Why don't you 'get to it' now? We can have a regular little pill-poppin' party." He indicated the Zofran and the super-Vic still in his hand. "Go get it! We can toast 'better living through chemistry' together."

I laughed, a little puzzled, and shook my head, then turned on my heel and headed to the kitchen for the little white pill that was helping me hold it all together. He was staring at me when I walked back through the door. "'Better living through chemistry'," I quoted. "Very amusing, House. Original line?"

He shook his head. "Nah … old commercial slogan. Before your time, kid." He rolled his eyes like a weary old man, and I could tell he was in a good mood. "But it was funny then too. So, uh …" He pointed a finger at the pill I still held in my hand, then tipped back his head and the meds in his palm did a disappearing act.

He was watching me, seeing if I had what it took to swallow the pill dry, the same way he did it. I made a wise-guy face at him and popped the thing into my mouth, tilted my own head back and gulped it down.

_Oh blick!!_

His head was back almost between his shoulder blades, and he was regarding me with an air of amusement. That look made me think of a smug ten-year-old who has taken the dare of swallowing a fly, and made a clean sweep of it.

"Ta-Dah!!!" 

It dawned on me suddenly that he might actually miss the satisfaction of caring for others. Maybe it wasn't all about the puzzle. Maybe some of it … a little of it … could be the pleasure of helping …"

Nah … this is HOUSE! 

But just in case …

I think I hesitated a moment, and then held out my left hand. "Hey … could you do me a favor and take a look at my wrist? Let me know if it's okay to get rid of this bandage now?"

I saw his eyes light up as he reached out for me, palm up. He would not grasp it this time as he had the last time and listen to me yelp in pain. His touch was soft, and so gentle that I almost blew the entire moment with my surprise. This was the man I'd always known still existed beneath all the bitterness and anger and pain. What would it take to bring it out once again?

Well I'll be damned! He actually does get fulfillment from caring. Learn something new every day!

House unwound the elastic bandage and tossed it aside. He checked for swelling and manipulated my hand between skilled fingers. "That hurt?" He asked, and I shook my head. "You should be okay without the Ace … but I'll check it in the morning to be sure." He turned my hand over and examined the fading thumbprint on the ligaments beneath. Then he released me and I drew my arm back again.

He didn't say a single word, but the depths of his large eyes were filled to their brims with silent apology. He was thinking, no doubt, of the instant when his grip had been so constricting that he'd injured me, and I'd just stood there by his side and taken it as though I'd had it coming. He knew I was attempting to read his mind, and deep inside I think he was even willing to allow it.

"I guess I'm ready to talk about the rest of my nightmare now … if you're ready to listen."

"Sure … I love bedtime stories …" he said. It started out as snark, but I believe he recognized the fear that was still deep in my heart, and his demeanor turned serious, almost gentle. "Are you sure you're ready?"

I nodded, and began haltingly. His eyes were almost immediately reluctant in the hearing of it; hesitant as I was for the baring of souls he was afraid might follow. And his soul was buried deep down inside him … so deep.

"… and then you brought the pestle down on your left thigh. You did it again and again and again until there was nothing left." I knew my eyes had lost their focus when I recited that last line, and my mind focused over and over on the awful mental images.

House's eyes were also vacant when I finished, and I knew he was witnessing it with me. His imagination was nothing, if not graphic, and his focus was to the side and on the wall, and he seemed nearly pinned in place by my descriptions and the crack in my voice that I was powerless to control.

"I wanted to help you," I was saying. "I tried to help you … but I couldn't! The muscle was gone; it was dead …

"… and you laughed."

The narrative was suddenly over, and I shook my head, trying to clear the memory away. I looked up at him with something like a plea that was unformed inside my head, and I felt a helplessness I could scarcely handle.

"Doesn't take a shrink to analyze that," House said, at length. "Look at me, Jimmy! And listen to me!"

I was able to refocus my mind at his words, soft though they were:

"If you want to get his attention, whisper!" You have my attention, House! 

"I'm _not_ suicidal! I told you that a week ago, and it's the truth. Told you I'm not going anywhere 'til you've been raised properly." He paused for a moment and smiled nastily. Giving me perspective.

"And I'm revising the estimate of how long _that's_ gonna take upwards every day! I'll be around to make your life hell for a good long time yet."

I had to smile at that, but I sat rigid, and I knew he still saw the silent plea in my eyes.

"You're doing a good job, Jimmy. The best. Should've told ya sooner. Should've told ya _better_! But I'm telling you now, and I want you to believe it. Dragged you to hell with me, and you stood guard all the way! 'Whatever it takes," you told me, and that's what you've done. What you're doing! So, do me another favor, all right?"

It was hard to take it all in and convince myself that he really meant it. I finally nodded, and knew that the pleading look had gone from my face.

"It's a really big favor," he said, "but I know you won't let me down. I want you to get outa here before I get all mushy on you, okay? And get some sleep." He paused dramatically, as though puzzled. "Wait! That's two favors. You're right … my math is lousy. Try to handle it!"

The mock glare he sent me was nested beneath a raised eyebrow, so I knew he was putting me on. It had never felt so good to be "put on"!

I placed my healing palm over his outstretched hand on the blanket and gave it a slight squeeze. Then I rose and started for the door.

I was almost out of the room, and I'd already flicked out the light, but I turned and paused for a moment, knowing he could see my silhouette in the dim glow of the little nightlight from the bathroom.

"Thanks, House," I said very softly as I pulled the door almost shut behind me.

I knew I would sleep well that night …

Oooo0oooO

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	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"Talk is Cheap!"

Monday morning:

I had slept like a rock!

No dreams … at least none that I remembered … thank heaven. The heap of pillows on the couch that had cradled Greg's back and shoulders and his painful legs, also provided me with a cocoon-type nest where I'd spent the night burrowed deeply, feeling like a big Meercat. It was the beginning of the workweek and I was not going to work. Alien feeling!

I awoke a little after seven a.m., and surprisingly felt no ill effects from sleeping on that hard old couch. I stood up and stretched my bones luxuriously, then traipsed down the hallway and peeked into his room. The curtains were still drawn from the night before and the room was dim and warm.

He was still in the gray sweats, I noticed, and the covers were thrown off, draped over the near side of the bed and dragging on the floor. His knees were both bent this morning, much to my surprise, and hitched up toward his body in an almost-but-not-quite fetal position. His hands were again curled beneath his chin, and he was on his left side, facing away from me. His breathing was deep and even, and he was still obviously sound asleep.

I had to push back the old waterworks at the look of him. It felt very good to see my best friend so relaxed, after too many years of being roused from whatever rest he'd managed to get before the nagging leg pain woke him with its angry insistence on further medication.

I suddenly recalled the times I had stopped to pick him up for work and found him pacing the floor, barely able to hobble, waiting for his meds to kick in enough that he could concentrate on the profession he loved, instead of having to fight just to stay on his feet.

And I had called him an addict, afflicted with phantom pain that existed only in his mind! Jesus!

I took a deep breath and backed out of his room again, closing the door quietly in my wake, and stepped across to the bathroom. It was time to freshen up, shave off the overnight scruff (one of us was enough!), and get into some clean clothing that didn't look like I'd pulled it off Greg's closet floor.

I luxuriated beneath the hot water and took some time to decide what needed to be done today. One of us … Lisa or I … needed to go to the grocery store and pick up some food that didn't have goofy little animal cartoons plastered all over it!

I also needed to arrange with the local Volvo dealer to have them send a rollback and pick up my crippled car. And I had to call my insurance company to file a claim. I wasn't sure if my mishap would be categorized under collision or comprehensive. The difference would probably amount to about five hundred dollars, give-or-take. And I needed them to get the car out of there before Greg saw it. It would either scare him to death to know how close I'd come to not coming home … or it would piss him off royally that I'd gotten myself into such a situation. I didn't intend to take the chance either way if I could possibly prevent it.

Once out of the shower, I headed to the kitchen to put a kettle of hot water on "low" so I'd have time to check back on Greg and take a quick look at his PICC line. I felt quite clear-headed, and my hand was working much better. I had to give Cuddy credit for knowing the right approach with a stubborn jerk like me when she ordered me to start on the Ativan prescription. The difference in my general attitude was astounding, even to me! I took one of them when I was in the kitchen so I could brag to House … in case he asked … and I knew he would.

He was awake when I went back to his room. He was sitting up with his big bare feet and long legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, giving me one of those baleful stares that dared me to say anything.

We engaged in one of those idiotic wordless conversations we've both become used to, where he "snarks" at me and I "exasperate" at him … and we work it all out together … with absolutely no verbal exchange! I went to his side and offered my steadying arm. He looked at his reluctant legs, then up at my face with an "oh Christ!" expression, and I decided he had made up his mind to accept the offer.

He stood carefully with revealing concession, leaning most of his weight on my outstretched arm. In this manner we navigated the short distance to the bathroom. When he came out again, he was hobbling gingerly, his lameness pronounced. When I raised an eyebrow about it, he simply indicated the wheelchair with a thrust of his head, effectively telling me that he needed a ride rather than a walk.

He conceded to a few moments of actual speech with a series of monosyllabic grunts about the chair being a better idea. I helped him into it and he said nothing further when I pushed him out to the living room and helped him transfer to the couch.

I checked his PICC line as I'd promised the night before, and he indulged me grudgingly. It was still inflamed, but didn't seem any worse. I rolled his sleeve back down and then shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. We still had not spoken … but it was an affable silence.

I brought him coffee and three slices of toast slathered with peanut butter and jelly and set them on the coffee table. He accepted it all with a welcome flash of devilment in his eyes when I joined him and had the same thing.

After we finished, I gave him a helping hand settling back onto the couch, straightened the scattered blankets and steadied him as he shifted himself around. He still had a hard time getting his legs up there, so I did the hefting and he did the settling. I dumped the coffee cups and paper plates in the kitchen, and when I returned to the living room, he had the remote in his hand. We had still not broken the silence.

After that, I figured it was about time to quit playing kids' games and get verbal. I thought the timing might be about right to have that talk on self-perception that Dick seemed to think was so important.

"Hey … can we talk a few minutes?"

"Haven't we been doing that a lot lately? Doesn't a little mindless TV sound like more fun?"

"A lot more fun! But this is important … or so they tell me."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Cuddy and Dickinson," I told him, and saw his ears suddenly perk up. He was interested. "It's about the breakthrough pain … or the loss of it, I mean. According to Dick, any major life change like that can cause a period of … uh … grieving … and …"

I looked up and focused on him closely when I heard the snicker. "House, will you stop laughing? This is serious!"

He did stop laughing, but only enough to ask: "Now who the hell would be upset at losing _pain_?" I watched him as he considered his own question, and then answered it out loud.

I could feel my eyebrows as they climbed into my hairline.

_Damn you, House!_

"Well … maybe a masochist, but then he'd be in pain 'cause he'd _lost_ his pain … so he's technically still in pain … so there's really no loss of pain at all … so it's _all_ good. Which is bad! Or maybe not, if, by definition, you're a sadist … 'cause that would mean … well … I'm not really sure what that would mean … but it's something to think about!"

I stood with my fists planted on my hips, waiting while his mobile features went through a series of idiotic contortions and he struggled to curb most of his damned amusement before he went on. "What I'm trying to say is, it's not the loss of the pain, so much as a change in how people perceive themselves … when something that's defined their existence is … gone.

"I don't define myself by my pain!" He growled.

As he said that, I could see a minute change in his demeanor, and I had a feeling that his recent nightmare was rushing back to his consciousness. He shook his head as though trying to get rid of the disturbing images.

His action worried me. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"That dream … the bad one," he conceded finally. "You told me that the only way I could come to terms with the disability was to redefine everything else … so that the leg … the pain … meant nothing. You wouldn't believe me when I …."

His voice trailed off, and I saw him pick up the remote control and snap the television on. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. You've done your duty. You discussed it with me. I get it!"

He looked away, and already his eyes were fastened onto an infomercial as though it were a special bulletin announcing the onset of World War III.

_Damn!_

Now that we were finally having the conversation, I wanted to finish it.

"House!"

I waited, and was met with nothing but silence.

"House! Please."

There must have been something in my voice. His gaze tore away from the small screen and scrolled across to my face. I grappled with a means to make myself clear without losing him entirely. "The concern is that if people don't come to terms with the changes, it could lead to problems." I was careful to keep the conversation general, saying "people" instead of "you". I was certain he would not respond at all if I made it specific to his state of mind.

As I watched him sitting there like a statue, I began to wonder if the generalization might have been a mistake. I took a deep breath and approached it again. I had to get him talking, not stonewalling everything I suggested.

"House … you had to live with the breakthrough pain for such a long time, and not only were you dealing with it alone … you were trying to convince us that it was real. That's a raw deal. Makes sense that since you had to devote so much energy to getting us to believe you, after awhile the pain might define who you were … how you felt."

"It didn't!" His comment was short; half angry. He turned up the volume on the TV, and the conversation was closed. Just like that.

I tried once more. Moved between him and the screen. "I agree with you!"

That surprised him. He muted the TV and actually looked up at me. "You agree with me, and yet you insist on discussing this?"

"I told Dick you were handling the loss of the extra pain just fine, and that I didn't think this talk was necessary. You only had two days of being back to status quo on the leg … so there hasn't even been much of a change so far, has there?"

"Not that I can see," he told me. "Tell your shrink his concern's misplaced. Tell him I can deal with it … if I ever get the chance to find out what it's like!" He looked down at his left leg with an expression of such disgust that I felt immediately sorry for him. Although I couldn't let it show.

"I'll do that!" I assured him. "But I need to know what I can do to help you come to terms with all this, and …"

"Stop, already! That's how you can help. Told ya there's not a problem. Stop trying to cause one, okay?"

His voice gentled down, and he was beginning to sound almost amused. "In case you haven't noticed, all you've been doing for … what? Eleven days? Is _helping!"_

He quirked his mouth into a half smile. "And now, in true 'Jimmy Wilson' fashion, we're moving smoothly from 'helping', right into 'overcompensating'! So quit it! And that's an order!"

Chagrin kind of fits me like a glove sometimes, and I could feel my face flushing hot with it. I nodded at him, a little put out, but more than ready to bury the hatchet. "Yeah … okay … sorr…" And I had to cut off another silly apology in the middle, and laugh at myself. Talk about overcompensating! "You're right. Guess I'll just shut up now …"

House picked up the TV remote. "That's the first sensible thing you've said this morning. So shut up already. It's almost time for SpongeBob. Good one, too. He and Patrick _both_ get to sing!"

I groaned. "Now _I'm_ the one in pain!" But at the same time, I felt good. I knew I could tell both Dick and Lisa that House and I had the vital conversation … and Greg had been right. No problem at all.

I cleaned up the dishes, poured us more coffee, and sat still with him for awhile … bored to death, but enduring SpongeBob.

Finally though, I retired to the kitchen again and called to have the Volvo picked up. When I returned, House insisted I let him check my hand again. He was not nearly so gentle that time, and smugly pronounced my life out of danger.

We had another one of those silly wordless conversations and settled onto the couch together.

He made room for me at his feet, and even grinned when I placed my hand gently across his ankles and leaned back with an exaggerated sigh to watch his damned cartoons!

Oooo0oooO

151


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

"Sick As A Dog!"

As the morning progressed I watched him fade in and out, gravitating between sleeping and waking. He spoke a few words here and there in a lethargic attempt at conversation, but often with phrases that made little sense. I attributed it mostly to the witches' brew of meds and his general attitude of not wanting to discuss anything having to do with reality since our conversation earlier.

I sat at the foot of the couch with my attention partly on the inane programming of the Cartoon Channel, and partly on Greg's position on the pillows. He looked comfortable, but at the same time … somehow not. Nothing I could pinpoint, but there was a lackluster glint in his eyes, and it almost seemed that he was not focused anywhere. His attention wavered all over the place.

He was not centering on much of anything that I could figure out, and his feet, still beneath my hand, were becoming restless and jerky. His eyes would dart to meet mine every time I frowned at him and zoomed in on his face. He would smile vaguely, but then his eyes would move away again, or he would close them and seem to float for a time in that hazy half awareness between some far-off dream world and the here and now.

My right hand squeezed first his right foot, then his left, and he moved away from me in a gradual motion, bending his knees and shifting both legs against the back of the couch. Watching his face closely, I raised both eyebrows, effectively asking whether I had hurt him. The frown I received in return meant "no" … he was simply annoyed.

By lunchtime, the lack of groceries in the apartment had become a problem, and I decided to call out for our food. He requested a taco salad, so I ordered the same and had everything delivered from the deli a block or so away.

I ate. House picked.

When I began an actual conversation about how he might be feeling this bright and glorious day, he glared at me as though I'd lost my mind. He then muttered something unintelligible and turned his head in the opposite direction. His mostly untouched meal still sat on its plate in the middle of the coffee table. He looked a little green around the gills, but when I finally broke the silence and asked him if he felt ill, he shook his head and buried further into the pillows. He stared so hard at the TV screen that I thought his X Ray vision might break the glass.

Something just wasn't right.

Further into the afternoon, aside from a trip to the bathroom, he remained entrenched on the couch, increasingly apathetic and indifferent to everything. I stayed with him, maintaining my well-worn position near his feet, and running a hand gently in an up-and-down motion along his shins and across the tight muscles of his calves. He did not complain, nor did he show any interest in the tactile sensations. I did not question him further, and it got very quiet around there …

Lisa came by after work, and in her hand was a garish plastic bag from a local electronics boutique. She'd bought a smallish, state-of-the-art video game gadget for House. I saw his eyes light up for a moment when she took it out of the bag and presented it to him. But after that, he just mumbled a few words of thanks and set it aside on the coffee table.

I exchanged surreptitious glances with her, but neither of us was willing to comment within his hearing. His full attention might have been turned off at that particular moment, but his analytical brain was not.

When she pulled out a smaller bag and produced a silly "get-well" card from House's and my medical teams, he offered no sarcastic remarks and no witty repartee. Cuddy and I exchanged another meaningful look, and silently agreed that something was definitely "up".

Cuddy made a lame joke about Cameron's reaction to my supposed "flu":

"The first thing she said was, 'Oh, poor House … he'll probably come down with it too! Wouldn't it just be safer to admit Dr. Wilson?' Then, of course, Chase pointed out that if you _do_ get it, you'll need someone to soothe your fevered brow … and that cheered her up considerably."

I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, and House forced a small smile. But there was no humor behind it … he just simply was not interested in the conversation in any way, shape or form. As far as he was concerned, he was overhearing two strangers sharing a tidbit of gossip somewhere across the street. Lisa and I stared at each other and shrugged. Greg just looked more and more tired, more and more distracted, and the color was draining from his face.

Cuddy got up to leave after first asking if I was okay about staying there with him. I assured her everything was fine, and I would keep an eye on him. I walked her to the door. "Let me know what's going on with him," she said. I promised I would.

After Lisa left again, I returned to the couch and sat down beside him, a little closer this time than my usual perch near his feet. "House? Are your legs bothering you? Either of them?"

"No," he said. "Just lazy today, I guess. Matter of fact, I think I'd like to catch a nap …"

I touched his arm lightly. "Wait a second … let me get a quick set of vitals first, okay?" By then, my concern for him was growing. The "pale" was, by then, being replaced with "flushed", and his eyes were turning glassy. I moved my hand down his arm to take his pulse, and at the end of the sleeve when I touched bare skin it was a little too warm. I shoved up the sleeve to check the PICC line and see whether the erythema at the site had worsened.

Not a problem.

The site was actually clear again, but I found that his pulse was slightly elevated. I placed his hand at his side and told him I was going for the thermometer, and I'd be right back. I got a fractional nod at that, and I got up to go back to the bedroom. While I was there, I grabbed the stethoscope and pulse oximeter.

When I returned to his side, I noticed immediately that his respiratory rate had accelerated in my absence, and the effort was somewhat shallow. His eyes were at about half-mast. Uh oh! I caressed the back of his hand with the backs of my fingers. He looked down at the touch and saw the thermometer I was extending toward him. He sighed and took it; put it in his mouth. When it signaled, he never glanced at it. Just handed it back.

"You have a fever," I told him. "It's only 100.8, but enough to make you feel kind of under the weather. Wanna sit up a little? I need to listen to your lungs …"

I paid close attention to his breath sounds. They were clear, but I thought I was hearing something slightly diminished on the right side. I was certainly not reassured when the pulse ox result was only 92 per cent. I frowned down at him, but he'd already relaxed back against the pillows again and closed his eyes. "I'm not going to medicate for the temp right now," I told him. "I think I'd like to watch it awhile …"

His arm rose from his side and his elbow bent over the bridge of his nose, effectively hiding most of his face from my view. I barely heard his mumbled response: "Jus' lemme get some rest … I'll be fine."

_Where the hell have I heard that before???_

I picked up an old medical journal I had no intention of reading, and moved across to the chair that faced the couch … allow him some breathing room … figuring he might need it …

I settled into the chair with the journal in my lap, knowing I was much too distracted even to glance at it. "I'm here if you need me," I said quietly, and I saw his head nod a fraction.

What now? If it's not the PICC line, it could be pneumonia. He's not moving around on his own much … especially since the wheelchair. With the larger doses of hydrocodone, his cough reflex is even more suppressed … and as rundown as he is …

I looked over at him again, studying the gaunt frame that reminded me a lot of the skeletal metal creatures in "I Robot". Skin over bone … but I did have to admit that even this unhealthy thinness looked a tad better than it had the week before. The tiny weight gain was showing a little in his face and around his eyes, but he was still too … _too_ … frail.

If his temp goes up … or the pulse ox goes down, I'm not going to wait on the blood cultures! I'll start a broad spectrum antibiotic tonight. Pneumonia right now could kill him!

I settled back into the chair and watched him closely for several more minutes, again wondering why I was so mesmerized by this "stubborn hero" and his angry and sagacious outlook on life. I sat staring, wondering for the "dozenth" time in as many days, exactly what the hell it was that compelled me, at all costs, to retain this "screwed up" friendship, and the respect of this strong-willed, egocentric, crippled genius with all the social amenities of a bale of barbed wire …

Every time I thought about it, I came up with a different answer. And this one was just so damned simple … I don't know why I could never admit it before.

He needed me. Yeah. He did. Like he said a long time ago: I need the needy.

Yeah, lucky for you! Don't go there, Wilson!

He needed someone to be his public whipping boy and his private confidante. He needed someone whose ego was less demanding than his own; someone to whom he could bare his considerable teeth, but who he was certain would not bite back. He needed someone who would look at him with admiration and ignore the sting of his bitter wit. He needed a friend: one who was willing to render a cane and a bad leg invisible …

And I had done all of that. Except for now, when it was not possible. He was punishing me for it … but he did not realize it.

He was sound asleep again, but his respiratory rate hadn't slowed and the effort was still too shallow. Finally, I sighed and opened the journal in my lap, endeavoring to keep my eyes on the words and off the worrisome human puzzle across the room from me.

After an hour, I looked up and realized I'd been dozing. I roused myself and stood up quickly. My awareness bounced back instantly, and I walked back to his side and stood there. I looked at the time.

Oh man …

It was 6:30 p.m. and I needed to check his temp again.

"House. Wake up! It's dinnertime."

It was like a silent alarm had gone off within him. He shifted position and turned over so that his back was to me. "Go 'way! Not hungry!" His voice was partially muffled by the back of the couch.

I put my hand on a thin shoulder, and even through the sweatshirt, I could feel that his temp was way too high. Worry struck without warning. I pulled my hand back and picked the thermometer off the coffee table. "You're burning up. C'mon! I need to get a temp!"

I heard him grumbling to himself, but his hand raised, fingers outthrust to take the little instrument from my grasp. I watched as he stuck it into his mouth. When it beeped, I reached across to pull it out. "Almost one-oh-two," I said. "I'm going to order a few doses of ceftriaxone from the hospice pharmacy and have them deliver it tonight. And I'm gonna get you some ibuprofen. Don't go back to sleep now … you need to take it."

"Uh huh," he mumbled, singularly unimpressed.

"I mean it!" I said, and knew my voice was on the rise. I struggled to maintain a calm that I didn't feel. "Stay awake a few minutes … it looks like you've got a touch of pneumonia brewing. I need you to take the ibuprofen, and then we'll see about getting you back to bed. You're gonna eat some soup, at least. Lucky there's still some in the cupboard. I can't put super-Vic into an empty stomach. You didn't eat your lunch."

I knew I was preaching and he was ignoring it in turn, but I couldn't help it.

"House? Are you listening to me?"

He didn't open his eyes, but his head turned to the right a few inches, and I could see there was the hint of a smile there, and still a little snark left as he rolled his eyes up at me. "If I repeat all that back to you, will you go the hell away and let me sleep?"

I don't know why I let him get to me the way he does, but he did it again … and the worst part was, he knew it. I smiled too, actually relieved to see he wasn't too ill to give me a hard time.

"If you can repeat it all back to me, then you already know the answer. So sit up and stop being difficult, or I'll be forced to throw your GameBoy through the TV screen. Then you won't be able to play your new game … which, by the way, Cuddy tells me, has fifty-eight levels … naked girls on level fifty-eight. You also won't be able to watch TV. So we'll have plenty of time to talk … get in touch with our feelings … all that really fun stuff!"

I saw the grin widen. Saw his eyes open and roll ceilingward. "You really know how to hit a guy where it hurts." He said.

I gave him a hand as he struggled to sit up. "Yeah … I sit up all night thinking of ever more inventive ways to torture you," I told him. "Glad you liked that one. It's my own personal favorite."

I left him sitting there, a little hazy and wavery; a little out of it from the fever, mumbling platitudes and laughing like a drunk who's coming off a three-day bender.

I left him there as I hurried out to the kitchen for the Motrin and a glass of water. Again thankful that he was a little too out of it to see the embarrassment and the burning mist that glazed my eyes and made a shambles of my attempt to be cute and funny and articulate …

Oooo0oooO

157


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"Lessons in Breathing"

I walked into the kitchen and stood planted like an automaton: worried, indecisive, my mind a blank, not even certain what I'd gone out there for.

I recall standing weakly, turned around and backed against the counter across from the butcher-block table, my right hand clenched across the taut nerves and tendons at the base of my neck. The left hand held my cell phone in front of my face and I wondered what the hell I'd intended to do with it …

Greg was in on the couch, hunched on his side and burning with fever, and my head was filled with painful scenarios of the struggles he'd been subjected to over the past weeks. I was feeling needy myself right then, overwhelmed and inadequate to handle his continued treatment in the determined manner his condition warranted.

I had to admit it; I was unexpectedly and unreasonably afraid. Afraid for Greg and for myself. Afraid of making a wrong move, afraid of doing him more harm than good, and afraid of what would ever become of me if he were suddenly gone from my life.

And there it was. It all came down to _me_! The waterworks were there; no surprise.

Our first tears are always for ourselves … 

"Get a grip, Wilson!" I wasn't sure if I'd thought those words, or actually said them out loud. But I had to admit there was a voice inside me, angry, unsympathetic and fed up!

This is not yours! Not this time. This is his. It always was. If you were not here, he would handle it himself. He would handle it because his inner strength is prodigious!

He allows you entrance to his world because he chooses to do so. That's the only reason you're around. If you didn't exist, he would find another way … because his sense of determination is that solid, his resolve that strict, and his courage that real. Do whatever you can do to help him recover from this, Wilson! But keep out of his way! He has no time and no patience for your insignificant imagined weaknesses …

I stood in the middle of Greg's kitchen feeling like the Devil had just touched my soul.

I felt as though I had been admonished by a warning voice that lurked deep inside my conscience, and its words had been etched in stone and left to grow wherever they could take root. Something had just reminded me that I was supercargo, and it had given no quarter.

I had always suspected I was not the choreographer of this dance …

I shook myself and looked around. The kitchen was the same as it always had been, but more than ten minutes had elapsed since I'd fallen head first into some kind of blue funk.

I shored myself up and focused on the responsibilities before me. I had a call to make, medication to gather, an obligation to touch base with Cuddy … and a can of soup to heat in the microwave. I must somehow get Greg to eat.

I dialed the phone number of the pharmacy and then ordered the ceftriaxone with a STAT delivery. The sooner they got it started, the better. I ordered three days' worth of albuterol aerosols and a nebulizer. Greg's general lack of mobility and the effects of the hydrocodone on his cough reflex had to be countered somehow.

When I hung up, I called Cuddy and told her of my certainty that House had pneumonia. I discussed my plan of treatment with her, and was not entirely surprised when she insisted on a chest X Ray for confirmation. She told me to go back to him and keep a close eye on him, and she would take care of setting up a visit by mobile radiology in the morning.

I dumped a can of cream-of-chicken soup into a bowl and slid it into the microwave. Sixty seconds. He must eat before he took the hydrocodone!

When I walked into the living room, my arms and hands were full to overflowing. He turned, and his eyes did a quick survey of everything, and then lifted snarkishly to my face in another nonverbal communication that ended in an eye-lock of major proportions. I unloaded all the paraphernalia onto the coffee table and pointed to the bowl and spoon. He ate the soup. Not happily, but he ate it … some of it anyhow.

After that I let him sit back against the pillows again. I handed him the oximeter and watched as he attached it to his finger and hold up his hand for me to read the number. I complained to him that he didn't have it positioned right, so I reached out and set the thing myself, and got the same reading: 90 per cent. I had him lean forward so I could get some breath sounds. There was no real change though, but I was sure I'd heard a diminished air exchange in the right lower lobes … and even the deep breaths didn't change the pulse-ox reading.

I straightened, put the stethoscope down and placed both hands on my hips. He looked at me with one of his "what now?" expressions, but I didn't answer. I walked around to the back of the couch and pulled the Everest & Jennings over to a point where he could slide himself into it with a minimum of effort. "Let's get you into the bedroom."

He didn't protest, just a muttered something-or-other that might have been: "okay" … His clumsy transition from couch to wheelchair was painful for us both, but I allowed him the dignity of doing it himself:

_If you didn't exist, he would find another way._

He sat huddled in the chair, eyes glazed and unfocused, and at that moment I wanted to squelch that nasty voice in my conscience:

No! He does need me! He has no one else … except Lisa … and she has an entire hospital to run!

I fought down the need to continue the "non-argument" and decided to let it go, at least for a time. I disconnected his IV, and I heard him say distinctly: "Feel like crap! It's cold in here."

He was shivering, and I wasted no more time getting him back the hallway and around the corner into his bedroom. I rearranged his pillows … the ones for his shoulders and the two for his legs … and then pulled the wheelchair's footrests out of the way and applied the brakes. He made it to a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, but he was still having trouble hefting his legs into a comfortable position on the bed.

I helped him get settled and pulled the blankets over his legs and up to his chest. He was much too warm. Even the fabric of the gray sweats was warm to the touch. I quickly took another temp reading and said to him in a no-nonsense voice: "Your fever's spiking. It's almost 103. Don't need a chest X Ray to tell me it's pneumonia. No wonder you feel like crap!" While I was talking, I was rolling the portable 02 setup to the bedside.

He looked at it blearily, and I could still see that he had the shivering shakes. "What's that for?"

"Oh … just a little something I like to do when a patient's 02 sat falls below life-sustaining levels," I told him in a teasing manner. "Humor me!"

"Ninety isn't that bad," He countered, and I saw a second's impatience in the fever-glittered eyes when he glared at the oxygen setup.

"No, not bad at all … if you're a lifelong asthmatic who chain-smokes …" I was giving him the hard time he deserved at the moment, and he transferred the glare from the 02 setup to me. I was busy connecting fresh tubing to the machine and setting the gauge for three liters. I ignored the stare and turned to smile at him in the most pleasant manner I could muster. "We caught this early, and the antibiotics will be here soon. Odds are, you won't need the 02 for long."

I tried to hand the nasal cannula to him, but he ignored it and continued to stare at me. "A touch of pneumonia … not a big deal." He said finally, and his voice was becoming so weak that the statement turned to a mockery. I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue.

"You're absolutely right," I told him. "And we're gonna make certain it doesn't become a big deal." I took the cannula myself and inserted it gently into his nostrils, and the glare never melted, never wavered. "To that end, I'll start the antibiotics as soon as they arrive, and we'll begin aerosol treatments every six hours. Oh! And your boss has decreed that you're getting a chest X Ray in the morning. We're attacking this thing from all sides. It doesn't have a chance!"

I could see he was about half pissy that his attempted debate seemed to be falling on deaf ears. I smiled at him and tilted my head in silent acknowledgment of his frustration. It wasn't that often I got ahead of him, and for a few moments of stolen triumph, I let him know it. God, he was frustrating! But that was at least half of what drew me to him. I wasn't sure whether he was aware of that fact or not, and I didn't debate the issue. Just stood and looked at him kindly and celebrated my tiny victory, knowing he would more than make up for it at a later time.

"I could'a won that one if I'd have felt a little better …" he groused.

"I'm certain you would have," I acknowledged benevolently in return, and watched as the furrow between his brows deepened. I tried not to smirk. It was difficult, but I believe I managed very well. "So … I won't hold the loss against you."

"Big of you," he mumbled. At that moment I saw him begin to shiver again. "Can I have another blanket? Or is freezing to death part of your overly aggressive plan of attack? 'Cause I hear death cures a lot of things …"

"If you'll stop your whining, I'll be happy to let you know," I said. I placed the tympanic thermometer in his ear canal. "Sorry," I said, but it's still 102.8 … let's wait until it's below 102. In the meantime …"

I grabbed two extra pillows from the foot of his bed and placed them in his lap. "Lean forward for me and let's do a little CPT while we wait on the aerosols."

"Chest physiotherapy?" He asked disgustedly. "That works great with pediatric patients and comatose adults … but I don't fit into either of those categories."

That remark was loaded with buckshot and he was trying to ambush me. I ignored him again, and drew another glare. However, he'd done as I asked and leaned his body forward into the stack of pillows. I cupped my hands and began the rhythmic percussions against Greg's back that were designed to loosen secretions in his lungs.

I began rather forcefully, but when I felt him wince beneath me, I knew the treatment was very uncomfortable for him. He was still so rail-thin that I actually felt as though I were striking against bone. At that moment I was very glad he was in no position to glance up and see the look on my face. It would have been a dead giveaway of the pain that still filled my heart. I geared back immediately and began using the same force I might have used on a pediatric patient.

When the procedure was over, I didn't remove my hands, but flattened them out and gently rubbed the skeletal back in order to take the sting out of the percussions … exactly the same thing I would have done for a child.

His muscles gradually relaxed beneath my hands, and I could feel the smile returning to my face when he took a deep, shaky breath, letting go of the tension his frail body had created to defend itself against the blows. I kept up the massage for a few more minutes, to unobtrusively allow him to regain a little stamina before I repeated the procedure on his chest.

At last, I gripped his shoulders gently as I could and leaned him back gradually against his pillows. He didn't open his eyes, didn't try to reposition himself. He had relaxed a bit and was already breathing a little more easily. I decided he did not want to waste the moment of release by talking.

Midway through the chest percussions, he began to cough. I handed him a knot of tissues and kept my hands on his shoulders as the coughing wracked his body. I wasn't really surprised that he was unable to bring anything up; the cough effort he was able to sustain was just too weak yet to be effective.

"Sorry …" he finally whispered. "I know you'd like a sputum specimen and I was gonna try … but it hurts." He leaned forward and began to cough again. And cough. And cough. This time I realized something else was in order. I wrapped an arm around his back and held a pillow firmly against his chest in an effort to lessen the strain.

I thought about reminding him that it was supposed to hurt … that even a touch of pneumonia could mean days of feeling awful. But he didn't need to be reminded of that. He knew.

I waited with him for the coughing to finally end, and he leaned weakly into my sheltering arm and the pillow while I spoke to him quietly. "We don't need a specimen unless the antibiotics aren't effective. Don't try so hard. It's okay … I know it hurts. I'm sorry." At that point I decided to forego the rest of the CPT.

When the medications arrived awhile later, I drew blood for the labs, wanting a complete blood count before starting the ceftriaxone, and I arranged for the courier to make an early pickup. I then gave a loading dose of the antibiotic, but decided to wait a couple of hours on the aerosols. His fever is finally coming down, his 02 sats are approaching normal, and I saw that he was beginning to fall into an almost comfortable sleep.

Very gently, I steadied his head and slid him out of my arms, allowing him to fall backward against the pillows again.

For the next two hours or so, I sat beside the bed, wide awake, and watched as he occasionally struggled for breath. I readjusted the pillows to keep his head elevated, and twice found myself removing his fingers from the nasal cannula when he attempted to swipe it off in his sleep. When his fever finally broke, I wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip and placed a clean pillow beneath his head. I found an extra blanket and, as promised earlier, covered him with it and drew it up across his body. He did not awaken.

I prepared the aerosol treatment about 10:30 p.m. and Greg awoke on his own. He was feeling better, he said, and took the nebulized aerosol with no argument. When I handed him his meds, however, the snark returned for a moment. He eyed his pills and then looked up at me. "You already take yours?" He asked without preamble.

I looked away for a moment before making any admission. "Well … uh … no. Figured I'd skip it tonight … just in case."

He nodded. He did not speak. He knew he did not need to. My winning game, such as it was, was over. Pass thrown and intercepted. Then: "I see." He opened his hand and his own meds dropped from his palm onto the blanket. He then reached up to pull out the cannula.

I knew when I was being stonewalled. "Hey! What are you doing? It's already past time for your meds. And we just got your sats back to normal range."

"Past time for your meds too!" He countered. "I figured I'd skip the 02 tonight … so you'd have something real to worry about while you stay awake tonight. Just in case!"

Here we go again! 

We were having another of those wordless conversations. He glared, I stared. I glared, he stared. Impasse. Status quo. Mexican standoff.

I lost. My amusement made me look away first, just as he had known it would. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. Was he mocking me? He sighed.

"Fine … I'll take it." I almost snarled at him, but there was no anger in it, which he already knew. "Put the oxygen back on! Take the pills! I'll be right back."

When my alarm woke me at 4:00 a.m., I prepared the neb and entered his room quietly. He was asleep. His temp was under 100, his 02 sat was 95 per cent … and he was wearing the 02, as promised.

I decided to give the aerosol blow-by; I didn't want to wake him. So I held the treatment by his mouth and nose until it was gone. After that I did a careful respiratory assessment, and was quite pleased that his respiratory status had remained stable.

Okay, House … so I didn't need to sit up and worry all night. Guess what? Sure am happy to have been wrong.

One of his pillows had slipped away and down to his right shoulder. I straightened it carefully. He had kicked away the extra blanket I'd given him, and I guessed he didn't need it anymore since the fever broke. I folded it and placed it with a heap of other stuff at the foot of the bed.

The room was dim. The way it always is at night. His face was in shadow, the smudges of light deepening out the hollow places around his eyes, his cheeks, his neck and chin.

His arms lay at his sides, fingers curled loosely toward his palms … but not fisted. They were relaxed. I looked from his hands and retraced the line of his body upward again, checking for tightness across the brow, a tension near his mouth. There was none. He was not in pain, not in discomfort. His sleep was simply that: sleep.

I returned to the living room and feathered my own nest. Kicked off my shoes and lay down on the cocoon I had created. Took a deep breath and expelled it gratefully. I pulled up the blanket and closed my eyes.

It was the last thing I remembered …

Oooo0oooO

e knewrtight away somethin

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	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

"On Days When Bad News is the Only News There Is …"

Tuesday morning brought with it a breath of normality. Maybe too much … like when you take in a gulp of oxygen that almost gags you …

A local delivery service arrived with a large grocery order at 8:00 a.m. I paid the guy and went about putting everything away. I went into Greg's room about 8:30 and he was awake and watching for my entrance. He had snark to spread and a few profound proclamations to make.

He felt well enough to complain about the oxygen, ("When are you gonna let me get rid of this?"); the aerosols, ("I feel like I'm drowning in sea water!"); and the scheduled chest X Ray, ("Why do I still need this?")

I listened to the griping with clenched teeth, even though I was very relieved to hear him come back at me with some of the old spark. I even agreed to lower the 02 to two liters.

But even that only shut him up until the young technician from the radiology service arrived.

He tilted his head and looked her up and down before asking again: "Why do we need a chest X Ray? We know it's pneumonia. Couldn't we skip the unnecessary dose of radiation?"

When the tech tried to explain that the exposure was minimal, I jumped in quickly to explain to her that House was a physician. She rolled her eyes in a long-suffering manner, and I knew she had probably been over this route many times before. She didn't say anything further, much to her credit, but I heard her mutter under her breath about "doctors being the absolute _worst_!"

I leaned down beside her shoulder and whispered in return: "I assure you, Gregory House is the _worst_ of the worst!"

Judging from the startled look in her eyes, the technician had recognized the name. She finished her work, packed up hastily, and left. From the bed, Greg threw me a satisfied smirk that told me I'd saved the kid from his biting tongue just in time. I answered the smug remark with only a wink. He wrinkled his nose in disdain.

I helped him to the bathroom, and then wheeled him out to the couch shortly after that. Assisted him getting settled. He ate a good lunch that I whipped up quickly from the fresh stash of staples, and leaned back to catch up with the soaps on TV. Shortly thereafter, he dropped off to sleep. I cleaned up the lunch dishes and returned everything to the kitchen to keep from disturbing him.

Since we'd talked about his recurring nightmare, he seemed to have lost all resistance to going to sleep. The naps he'd been denying himself during the day were quickly becoming a part of his renewed routine. I decided that it was a good thing … something that would help speed up his recovery.

When I walked in from the kitchen again and glanced across at him, something was different. I stared, and froze in my tracks. House's face was contorted, his teeth clenched, and a line of perspiration was beading on his upper lip. I saw him pull that left leg up toward his chest, but before I could gather my senses to take it all in, his eyes flew open again and both hands were on the thigh.

I hurried to him, but by then he was awake, eyes refocusing, hands relaxing, and he straightened the leg, looking disoriented and puzzled. He glanced around the room and then at me.

"What was that?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the couch near his feet.

"Not sure …" he ventured. "Guess I was dreaming that my leg hurt. But when I woke up, it was fine. Weird!" He struggled to a sitting position and I watched him rub experimentally at his leg. "Doesn't hurt at all …" His puzzlement was deepening. Mine too.

"Do you remember what you were dreaming about when it started?" I asked. I reached out to touch the thigh muscle, but it seemed fine.

He thought about my question for a moment, then shook his head. "No idea." His expression changed gradually to a mischievous, teasing look. "I got it! I've been _grieving_ the loss of the pain so much that my subconscious decided to make me feel better by letting me dream about it. Too cool!"

I wasn't amused. I had witnessed the agony that had twisted his features for those long moments. "No! I was watching when you woke up. You were hurting … it was real!"

"Oh relax! Maybe I hit my leg on the couch or something …"

My worry turned to exasperation, and I couldn't have helped the eye roll even if I'd wanted to. "Yeah … those soft cushions can be murder! Gotta be real careful around 'em. Y'know, everything I've ever read says pain incorporated into dreams is actual pain that's disrupting your REM sleep. You're certain you're okay?"

The look on his face turned patronizing. "Let me get this straight … you're upset because I'm _not_ having a problem. You're concerned that I'm _not_ currently in pain? Sorry that I'm … unhh … comfortable. If it'll make you feel better, I'll try to arrange for an abscessed tooth or something …"

He'd got me again, and I had to laugh out loud, just as he'd expected. "You're right; it's ridiculous to worry that you're not in pain. But that was … strange."

He shrugged. His part in this nonsense (to him) conversation was over. He turned his attention back to the TV.

Half an hour later, I came to fear that the odd occurrence might have been a harbinger. As I came back to the living room with a full bag of TPN, I saw him rubbing angrily at the left leg again, and this time he was definitely awake.

He looked up at me with luminous, pain-laced blue eyes. "Hurts for real this time." There was a smile of chagrin on his face. "Happy now?" But the weak attempt at humor died on his lips when he saw the fear and concern I knew was etched on my face. So he looked away and decided to tell the truth, I guess, because his voice was breathless with pain. "Gonna be a bad one …"

I wondered if that particular remark was a back-door method of asking for the morphine to be administered before the spasm could get out of control. "Should I … ?" But before I could finish the question, he nodded sharply.

I moved toward him, discarding the TPN bag on the lid of the piano. He'd need to shift himself to a lot more comfortable position on the couch than he was in right then, in order to ride this one out.

"Don't touch me!" He warned, grinding the words through clenched teeth. He curled himself more protectively over the leg, teetering near the edge of the couch. "Just get it!"

I knew this was going to be the worst one yet, and I returned as quickly as possible with the morphine … a double dose. This wasn't the time to depress his already compromised respiratory effort. It was also not the time to be casting a judgmental eye on his degree of pain, so I made sure I was prepared either way.

He'd already reached the point where all ten fingers were white and rigid and digging deeply into the muscle. His eyes were tightly closed. He was trying very hard to control his breathing, but I could hear it rasping out of him in anguished gasps.

I knew he would hear anything I said only peripherally, but I tried to speak calmly anyway. "I'm pushing the med now, House. It'll begin to ease up soon." I mumbled all the comforting nonsense that came to mind, just in an attempt to help him stay focused. I watched his ashen face closely and continued to administer the dose.

"You're doing okay with the breathing," I told him. "Keep it up. I've got about 3mg in now. Should be hitting the spasm. Breathe! I'm right here with you. Relax your hands and let the meds work. Go with it. Breathe!"

Obediently, he pulled in a breath, and I saw his hands begin to release from the leg. His eyes were still closed tightly, but the pain lines in his face were beginning to soften. He took a few more deep breaths before he was finally able to relax further. "Okay … it's bearable. Wasn't as bad as I thought." He opened his eyes and looked up at me. "Thanks …"

Not as bad as you thought? Bearable??? Oh God, House … you can't live like this! It's just not fair, and we've got to find out what it is. Got to fix it!

I tried to imbue my voice with a lot more confidence than I felt when I answered him. "We should get the test results back today. We'll _know_ what it is. We'll take care of it. Promise. Just … hang in there a little while longer."

Bless him, he smiled at me, but it was overlaid with a sadness I could hardly stand. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep," he said weakly, and I could feel, rather than see, the residual fatigue and after-image of pain the hard spasm had left within him. The discouragement in his voice tugged at my heart, and I found it very difficult to look him in the eyes. I grasped his shoulders and lifted him to an easier position against the pillows; kind of a stopgap to keep from talking and keep him from hearing the catch I knew would be in my voice.

He shouldered further into the pillows, not moving his legs, but dragging them as he shifted his body backward. It was agonizing to watch. He was taking no chances of further pain. I covered his legs with the blanket and sat down beside him again. He was exhausted.

He was looking directly at me when he spoke again. "Been thinking. There's been no improvement. If it were an injury, it would be getting better by now. If the tests don't show anything, I … I want you to do a biopsy."

"No! We'll figure it out! That won't be necessary. House … I …"

"Be objective!" He stated, flatly and harshly. "If I were any other patient, what would be your next move?"

"But you're _not_ any other …" I heard my voice trailing off, and I remember how I lowered my head shamefully, and pinched at the bridge of my nose as he continued to look at me appraisingly.

Ten seconds of absolute silence hung between us, but in no way did it resemble the snark-filled mute conversations we often enjoyed together. "A muscle biopsy," I finally said. "We'll have to wait about ten days because of the EMG. That'll give me time to find someone to do the procedure …"

"No! I said I want _you_ to do it." I saw the plea in his eyes that he couldn't voice, and that I simply could not turn down.

"Okay … I'll do it. Maybe … maybe it won't come to that. We still have ten days for this to resolve." But I didn't bother trying to instill a false hope in my voice. I wouldn't insult his intelligence that way.

It was quiet between us the rest of the day. He stayed on the couch, weary and resigned. He picked at his dinner, and I did nothing to try to cajole him to eat anything more. We stared at the TV, but neither of us could have told anyone what was on. It was only a means of distraction, and both our thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Lisa Cuddy got there somewhere around 6:30 p.m., and I pulled her into the kitchen to update her. She was shocked and saddened by House's request, but she understood why I had agreed to it. Her hand on my shoulder was a consolation I'd needed badly.

"I'll take care of him this evening," she told me, "and get him settled down for the night. Try not to worry too much. Maybe I'm overly optimistic, but ten days is a long time. Something might still change."

I accepted her offer with gratitude, and her general optimism didn't hurt either. Since the initial shock had worn off, I was daring to hope again for a less drastic answer.

When the courier arrived that night, Cuddy was just leaving his bedroom. She was smiling as she walked down the hall in my direction. She said she'd let House remove the oxygen an hour earlier, and he maintained his sats at 95 on his own. He'd managed a good cough effort after the aerosol treatment. She said he beat the daylights out of her in a game of gin, and then went to sleep like a good boy. I laughed, and that's when we heard the knock on the door.

The courier handed me the envelope with the test results and I took it optimistically. I sat down on the couch, opened the envelope and scanned the contents.

"_NO!"_

Cuddy heard me and started toward me as I tore frantically through the rest of the pages. I knew she was about to ask me what was going on, but I could feel the heat and the denial rising like bubbles in my blood. I dropped everything on the coffee table. Part of them scattered onto the floor as I escaped into the kitchen with my hands over my face, shaking my head and repeating over and over: "No! Oh no! It can't be … No!"

Cuddy was silent behind me, and I knew she was bent down, gathering up the scattered papers. It got deathly quiet, then the sound of cautious footsteps slowly followed me into the kitchen. I felt her pause in the doorway and stare at me, speechless. Her face was white. Slack.

Eyes misting until the numbers on the front ran together, I dialed the phone …

Oooo0oooO

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	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

"Faith, Hope and Charity"

Cuddy was across from me, straight-faced and serious when I hung up the phone. She'd followed me to the kitchen with the test results she'd rescued from the living room, and stayed with me in support. She'd scribbled questions on scraps of paper from time to time, and handed them to me, and I added them to my own questions while talking to Dick.

Her warm fingers calmed my trembling hands every few minutes, offering reassurance where I had none. I don't think she realizes, even now, exactly how deep my gratitude goes for what she did for me that day. Faith!

When she left, I returned to Greg's room and performed all the night duties like an automaton, trying to let the tasks I knew by heart distract my mind from the distressing test results. When I finally finished, I sank wearily into the bedside chair and simply watched over his sleeping form.

And the thoughts came unbidden. And the worry. And the guilt. It would be only a flimsy excuse to blame any of this on the Ativan, so I didn't. I put it squarely where it belonged: with me.

Why did I take such a perverse delight in giving those thoughts free rein in my mind? I don't know. I looked at him, asleep and content, the unknowing victim of my denial and stupidity. I needed to leave, but he held me like a magnet, even when he was completely unaware. I'd done this to him, and now I was powerless to fix it. Only Greg could do that. I hoped he would allow me to help.

I still had no idea how much it would cost him, nor in what coin. He was the last person in the world I would ever want to harm, but now I'd found the single most effective way to hurt him. He'd trusted me to keep him safe, and I'd become his biggest danger.

As my eyes rested on his sleeping form, he frowned as though my errant mental ramblings had been transmitted to him directly and invaded his dreams, whatever they might be.

I'd had very few opportunities, during our long friendship, to observe Gregory House in sleep. But over the past few weeks I'd had endless opportunities for such observations, and the experiences never ceased to melt my heart. With all his defenses lowered and all his walls crumbling, he seemed so unprotected and defenseless. He was a mass of confusing contradictions. I could see such sadness in that expressive face, and an abundance of unguarded innocence that reminded me once again why I clung so tightly to our friendship. He defined me. He lent daring to my ingrained sense of caution. He thrust boldness into my reticence and confidence into my uncertainty. Greg House inserted exclamation points where I clung to ellipses, and dared to put into words everything I had ever wanted to say, but did not do so for the sake of propriety.

And now, in my zealous attempts to protect him, I had protected him to the point of obscuring the truth, and inadvertently contributed to his denial of the final diagnosis. We were both scared to death of it! We both knew the bitter truth, however, deep down inside where it counted. Our dreams-turned-nightmares had spelled it out relentlessly. I was so busy convincing us both that I could fix it, that I'd turned a deaf ear to everything he'd been trying to tell me. I had even ignored my own subconscious.

I was becoming uncomfortable in the chair, shifting and turning, trying to find a way to ease the cramps in my muscles, but there was no comfort. "Johnny Come Lately." The discomfort I felt was internal rather than external. There was no remedy I could foresee for all my good intentions gone wrong.

When Greg shifted in the bed, I froze in place, afraid I'd disturbed him. But he settled again, burrowing deeper into the pillows and blankets, and settled back into sleep.

With a last look at his peaceful face, I hefted out of the chair and made to leave. I needed to move my bones and thrust away the crawly feeling that scratched intolerably just beneath my skin. I hoped some form of physical activity would wear down the nagging sense of guilt that instilled itself within me once again.

I paced the living room awhile, but nothing seemed to help. I even made a sweep through the kitchen in hopes of finding something there to distract me. But the room was clean. Between Lisa's efforts and my own, there was no mess to clean up, no dishes to wash. The place looked almost too clean to compare with the inventive sloppiness of Gregory House. It made me smile and mist up at the same time.

Grudgingly, I returned to the couch and managed to sleep awhile, but by 6:00 a.m. I was again awake. After checking in on House and finding him still peacefully asleep, I gathered my laptop and the test results and went back to the kitchen. The room was too clean. I got out the pot, the kettle and the grinder and prepared to brew some very strong coffee. That would certainly disperse with my unease at "too clean". Then I sat down at the table in the corner and turned my back on the world.

Effectively hiding my face from any form of intrusion, I opened the laptop and checked emails. I had asked Dick last night to record our conversation and send me the file. And there it was … waiting for me like a glaring testament to my shortsightedness and denial.

I had to figure out a way to tell Greg what was really wrong … and help him get through it … if he would allow me that privilege. Hope.

When the water boiled, I ground the coffee quickly and dumped the grounds into the French press. I noticed I had a good case of the shakes. I stood at the counter while the coffee steeped, holding both hands out in front of me, watching them tremble in spite of anything I could do to get them to stop. I sighed. This was getting me nowhere.

I pushed the plunger and the fresh-coffee aroma floated upward to my nostrils. Heavenly! I picked up the carafe and began to pour the steaming liquid into my cup.

I don't know what made me lose my grip. A lingering weakness in my wrist? A result of my unsteady hands? I didn't know, but suddenly the pot was tumbling out of my hands, knocking over my cup, splashing across the counter and cascading onto the kitchen floor like a miniature Niagara Falls. I was lucky I didn't burn myself or break the carafe.

I can remember thinking to myself that this was the last straw, and muttering a string of epithets that would have gotten me thrown out of polite company on my proverbial ear.

But when I finally shut up, I found that the verbal explosion had actually relieved some of the tension and tamed me down a bit. Suddenly calm, I watched the liquid begin to pool, and then mosey across to drip off the edge of the counter and add to the flood already seeping across the floor.

Unhurried now, I reached for a roll of paper towels and began mopping up Lake Erie. The mindless sopping of runaway liquid that quickly overwhelmed even large wads of paper towels helped free my head and unclench my gut. I found that I was farming it out, allowing the lack of mental turmoil and hurtful thoughts to close in over the dread I was feeling at the prospect of listening to the word file …

I took the huge handful of paper towels to the sink and wrung them out, then turned back and finished mopping up the counter. Staring at the floor in resignation, I knew it would take more than absorbent paper to dry up that whole other body of water.

I put fresh water on to boil and ground up another batch of coffee beans. I'd come out here for coffee, and by damned, I intended to have some before getting down to business. I rinsed out the French press and placed it back on the counter. I let the hot water run on full and poked around for a mop. I found one hanging outside Greg's back door, but there was no bucket. I went back and placed the mop into the sink to rinse the stiff strands. Slowly, I mopped up the spilled coffee, wringing out the mop by hand beneath the hot water every time it filled up and began to drip.

The water was boiling by the time I finally finished … and the upside of the whole thing was that there was a very clean floor. I took the mop back where it belonged and returned to the kitchen to wash my hands until they were pink. Then I shut off the water and poured the water from the kettle into the press. I waited only a minute before pouring my coffee into the cup … very carefully this time … and noticed my hands were no longer shaking.

I carried my coffee over to the table where the laptop with the email, the voice file and my legal pad and a pen lay waiting for me.

I flicked the voice file on and listened to the conversation from the night before. The opening statement, the one about the loss of the breakthrough pain and how it might affect House, hit me between the eyes with the necessity of his acknowledgment of it and

his subsequent acceptance. I'd asked Dick what the consequences might be.

For the second time, his answer rocked me, not with surprise, but with collaboration. "The most serious thing would be a conversion disorder … or a psychosomatic illness."

I paused the file and picked up the test results. I read them; reread them, then read them again. The words, of course, did not change, even as I willed them to do so.

"Possible Diagnoses and Recommendations:

A full battery of tests, including imaging studies …. Blah blah blah …

And ending with: "the recommendation is that _malingering _or _psychosomatic illness_ be given consideration …"

House didn't malinger … unless he was locked into some foolish contest with Cuddy … and everyone knew that at those times he was playing his "cripple card" for all it was worth and enjoying every second of her sputtering and eye rolling.

For Gregory House to actually _pretend_ to be in pain when his mindset was locked into pretending to _not_ being in pain … didn't even make sense! I should have talked to him. I should have! Damn!

Dick asked me if I was blaming myself. Well, yeah … of course I'm blaming myself. Who else was there?

But no charity!

Oooo0oooO

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	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"The Blind Leading the Blind"

"James!"

His sharp voice barking my name at me made me jump. Even on the file I was listening to as I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I hit the "pause" and slumped in the chair. He'd hit my "guilty button" twice!

Dick had done the same thing the first time when I was actually on the phone with him the night before. He'd yelled at me! And I'd actually jumped … even at his voice over the phone. Oh yeah. Guilt!

I'd known Dick Dickinson a long time, even longer than I'd known Gregory House. Dick had the further advantage of being a psychology major, and a really good one who possessed instincts far beyond anyone I'd ever known before. He was a quick study and a person who had many methods of breaking down people's defensive mental barriers before most people even knew they had them up. A long time ago, I'd discovered I was no exception. And now I was learning it all over again, much to my chagrin, for he knew exactly what buttons to punch to get my attention quickly. Yelling my name at me was just one of many.

I released the "pause" again … backed up the tape …

"James! Let it go!" Dick yelled for the third time.

"Let go of the guilt!" He was saying it would paralyze me to the point that I wouldn't be able to help House at all. He was telling me that in his opinion, it probably would have happened anyway, because the problems with Greg's other leg happened on the first full day after he got home from the hospital, and he hadn't had enough time to view his pain problems any differently.

I paused the tape again and began to scribble out a timeline on the legal pad. Looked into the distance a moment and took a long swallow of the hot coffee. Set the cup down and began the file again. "He's probably right about that," I said to myself out loud. I scribbled a little more and read it back to myself. My God … my handwriting looked terrible. Like a doctor's.

I played more of the tape, listening carefully as I told Dick how I would do my best to deal with my guilt over what had happened … but that my biggest concern was House … if the diagnosis of psychosomatic pain was accurate … how could I help him? How could I even find a way to tell him?

Dick said I couldn't tell him yet … that I had to accept it first, or else he would quickly pick up on my doubt and guilt and grab onto it to retreat even more deeply into denial.

I sounded half hysterical, even to myself, and as I listened, I was cringing at the fact that I still argued with Dick, who was trying to remain professional, while I operated strictly from pure, "exposed nerve" emotion. I was going to tell House … right away … I'd promised him my honesty and I'd practically forced him to trust me … and I owed him so much more after what my disbelief did to him for all those months … and I wouldn't even consider hiding this from him … no … no … no ….

And on and on …

There was a long pause on the recording at that point … and I knew Dick was probably counting to ten and waiting out my babbling so I could get my act together and begin listening to reason again.

His voice was saying very patiently: "The first time you came to see me, you said you were willing to sacrifice the friendship if it would save the friend." I knew he was telling me that if I spoke to House too soon, that I just might be making that sacrifice. And I heard myself telling him that any loss I took wasn't important, so long as House got through this with his trust intact. He might blame me, or even hate me, but at least he'd know I'd been honest with him … and if I knew House, no matter how it turned out, he'd never forget that.

Dick Richardson's sigh after that long sacrificial spiel was so loud that it came out across the recording like bacon frying in an extremely hot pan. That was the moment I knew that he wouldn't try to argue with me further. It was also the moment I figured he was beginning to think I was an idiot.

I paused again for another round of scribbling. Picked up my coffee cup. It was empty and cold.

Whoa! How long had I been at this? Not that long, I'd thought. I got up and wandered over to the counter to pour another cup. Returned to the table. Sat down, sat the cup down, picked up my pen and reactivated the recorder.

This was the part where Dick decided to try playing it my way. "Then just tell him! Don't sugarcoat it. But be ready for his anger and a rejection of the diagnosis. You have to give him time … and give him room. Things won't resolve until and unless he decides to accept it. I don't know how long that will be. The good news is … your stubborn insistence on total honesty … he might eventually give it enough importance in reaching a decision to combat this. Don't get me wrong … I still think telling him right now is a mistake … but I'm willing to venture it could pay off in the long run."

My own voice resumed on a heartier note: the spoiled little kid who's just gotten his own way. "Thanks, Dick … it's good to know there's some hope. I've got another question … I told you about the pneumonia earlier during our regular call. Aside from that, he's improving. It's slow, but steady. Could any reaction he has to this new diagnosis endanger his recovery?"

Dick said: "No. Don't think so. He's got the most conscientious doctor on the planet, and his general recovery should continue. But now I have a question for you! I know you can handle getting him through this … but you're going to need some guidance. The only way I can do that is to meet him … try to get some idea how … and if … he's coping. Think he's up to that poker game yet? Say … Friday night?"

I could hear myself laughing softly on the recording, and I felt myself laughing now, listening to it. Greg House and Dick Dickinson in the same room … at the same poker table … both of them with big cigars sticking out of their faces and ominous gleams lancing out of their eyes. Interesting thought … then and now! I was saying: "That's three days away. The pneumonia should be resolved by then … yeah, we could try it. Just … uh … don't expect a warm reception from him, okay?"

"Now _there's_ a surprise ..." Dick was laughing as well. "Here, I was expecting to be treated like visiting royalty … the good China … and his best manners. Damn! I'm disappointed."

We both laughed at that, and again I speculated at the round of fireworks I could imagine exploding forth from two very evenly matched snarkmeisters.

The next part of the discussion was difficult to listen to the second time. Dick was pointing out all our missed clues: House's recurring nightmare … the fact that I'd actually accused him of defining himself through his pain … and another retelling of my terrible dream of watching Greg destroying his left thigh to spite my belief that he _needed_ to be in pain. And the timing of the spasms … almost always coming on when House felt insecure! Even the recent dream spasm, which ended when House woke up … but turned into an actual spasm when he was contemplating the need for a muscle biopsy.

I paused again and drank my coffee, taking careful notes and listing to all the incidents; remembering others, like the night we returned from the nerve-wracking tests at PG, and the morning House had begged me not to leave for the day. I wrote everything down. I had two curling legal-sized pages of chicken scratching.

I played the rest of the file and listened to Dick telling me that the self-perception discussion should, ideally, have come before the treatment for the breakthrough pain. Greg really needed to assimilate the information that he was no longer doubted by the two people closest to him. He also hadn't yet learned confidence in his own decision to trust Cuddy and me. Dick thought his mind was rebelling against the rapid physical and emotional changes in his life, and his brain was unconsciously seeking out the familiar patterns of the pain.

Dick even thought that House's initial resistance to the morphine might have been an unconscious acknowledgment of the origins of the spasms. That part gave me another small stab of guilt. One more reminder that I should have asked him more questions and been more sensitive to his refusal of the drugs at first …

The voice file ended with Dick warning me that Greg's recovery from the psychosomatic pain could take a lot of time … and the final thing on the tape was my own voice:

"Whatever it takes … as long as it takes …"

I shut off the recorder and stood, looking at my empty coffee cup. I needed to make a fresh pot … in case Greg might want some later. And I needed to administer the antibiotic. I looked again at the timeline I'd constructed on paper, and admitted to myself that, while I still felt much of the blame for this diagnosis belonged squarely on my stubborn head, it was a relief to be able to dispel some small chunk of the burden.

Feeling a little washed out, I turned absently around and began walking toward the living room with the paper still in my hand and the faint stirring of hope that we might actually get through this.

I walked past the doorway and raised my eyes from the page.

Gregory House sat on the edge of the couch. The TPN was disconnected, and his cane was clutched in both hands. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were focused on me in a most interested manner; those twin mirrors in which I'd always been able to read his own special brand of truth …

There was a coldness there that I could feel, and it made me pause with icy shivers down my back. I froze in place and regarded him.

"House …"

I was in shock. I stared at the figure on the couch, and he stared back.

This wordless conversation was not like any of the others we had ever had. But we knew each other so well. I did not need to ask the question I was fated to ask … but I asked it anyway.

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it."

Oooo0oooO

176


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"Fool Me Once, Shame On You … Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me!"

_How much did you hear?_

_All of it!_

There was no backing up; no _unhearing_ of words planted inadvertently, albeit firmly, inside a person's brain. I would have given anything … _anything_ … to have gone backward one hour in time and undone every second of that voice file and every implication that had to have registered in Greg's mind with the impact of an anvil dropped from a second story window.

Suddenly coming face-to-face with his unexpected presence there in the living room, that pitifully thin figure hunched on the couch and looking at me with an unreadable expression on his face, forced my thoughts into "freeze-frame". He looked defeated. Unfocused. Flummoxed. As though he were still trying to assimilate what he'd overheard and fit it around everything he had conveniently assumed before then.

I stood there with all the incriminating evidence in my hands: the laptop, the final diagnosis hard copy, and the pages of my own notes on the outcome, dangling from my grasp. Frozen in place with no idea what to do or say next, I felt my teeth come together hard on the soft flesh inside my mouth until I felt the salty taste of my own blood. God! This was unreal!

"House …"

At first, his name was the only thing I could manage to choke out. Then: "I guess we need to talk …"

His glazed eyes gradually regained focus as he raised them to meet my own. "Naw … we don't," he said flatly. "Your shrink is right … you have nothing to feel guilty about!"

If I had nothing to feel guilty about, then _why_ was I standing there like a moron, feeling so damned guilty? "I … don't?"

Inarticulate too.

"He's right because you're wrong," was the comeback, and the words didn't make sense when compared with the actuality of the situation. What the hell was he talking about?

"You can't feel guilty about an incorrect diagnosis," he continued, and my puzzlement deepened. "We won't have the _real_ diagnosis until after the muscle biopsy … so until then the DDX is over and we won't be discussing it again until we have the _results!_"

I watched closely, incredulously, as his focus moved away from my face, and he leaned back and took a deep breath. I saw him compose his face and then look at me again with the coldness combed from his expression and the strange matte glaze gone from his eyes.

It hit me: he was deep into denial.

_Oh God! He thinks he might have cancer! How can I convince him he's wrong?_

"So what's for breakfast?" He had changed the subject as quickly as a camera lens moves from close-up to infinity.

"Unhhhh …" I couldn't scrape up enough coherent thoughts to form an answer.

"You were running the damned water out there for so long I was beginning to think you were flooding the kitchen. Were you working on a new, complicated pancake recipe? I'm starved."

"Unhh …"

My inarticulacy deepened with the feeling of being so completely blindsided that I was struck dumb. "I'll … go see what I can find. I'm glad you're feeling better. Let me go get your meds, and then we'll see about breakfast. We can talk after we eat …"

I whirled away from him and hurried back to the kitchen with the laptop and the other damaging evidence he definitely wasn't prepared to deal with yet. I stashed them in one of the cupboards and then moved to gather his meds like some android programmed to do his bidding. I took his meds back to the living room with me and walked across to the couch.

He was still haranguing away on his "what's-for-breakfast-what's-for-lunch" mantra when I sat down beside him. "Maybe we can have a discussion of the lunch menu. I thought maybe that weird salad you make … you know … the one without lettuce?"

I saw him smile a large foolish smile and shake his head, and I didn't know what to do. I'd been prepared for anger … disbelief … not this calm and complete denial that made him sound a little like he was coming unglued. I took a moment to shake myself mentally in order to cope with the unexpected turn of events, and decided that I would just play it his way awhile; see what happened before trying to bring up the true diagnosis again. "Okay. The lettuce-less salad sounds fine … but let me scrounge you some pancakes first."

"Sounds fair," he said, and spent the next minute hefting his uncooperative legs carefully onto the couch. I drew the blanket to his waist and turned to head back to the kitchen.

We both heard the knock on the door and turned toward it, even as House lost interest quickly and began to channel surf.

I went over to let Cuddy in, whispering in her ear, "He knows! He overheard the voice file this morning. Refuses to talk about it."

Cuddy shook her head in a moment of disbelief, almost as pole-axed as I had been. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but I shushed her quickly and whispered, "… later!" She nodded and walked over to the couch. She sat down at Greg's feet to say good morning to him and lay her hand atop his ankles gently. He looked at her and smiled a little, but went quickly back to the TV, prolonging conversation as long as possible!

I took the cue and moved rapidly in the direction of the kitchen. Busy the hands … busy the mind. Join the denial party and bake a cake for the celebration. I had a sinister feeling that sooner or later the you-know-what would hit the fan. Bigtime!

Gathering the ingredients for pancakes (sans macadamia nuts), I eavesdropped on the ensuing conversation from the other room. I heard House's stage whisper quite clearly, and knew he was onto what I was doing. Damn him! But I kept listening anyway.

He was saying: "Cuddy, you can't leave me alone with him anymore! He thinks I'm crazy!"

I sneaked over and peered around the corner of the doorjamb and saw him circling his ear with an index finger, pointing in my direction with the universal language of "Cuckoo". I wasn't too surprised to see his gaze lift and settle on my own as I stood lingering in the doorway. I rolled my eyes at him and withdrew again to my breakfast preparations.

It set me to thinking rationally again. Had he been indicating to me that this was his way of telling me he hadn't completely rejected the new diagnosis? Was he inferring that the painful truth was somewhere inside that amazing brain, just niggling around and ricocheting off any number of possibilities and theories that I might not be "Cuckoo" after all?

I could feel another one of my long line of exasperated sighs building up inside me … and I allowed its expression. Oxygen to the brain! Clear out the cobwebs! Greg was the one who'd closed the subject of the diagnosis. Shut me down like dropping a manhole cover into place!

But apparently, I decided, there was a clause in the contract somewhere, and he was taking the liberty of making jokes about it. Well, if that's what it took to get him to latch onto the idea, then more power to him! I'd be his fall guy … gladly … and I was suddenly reminded of "Gladly, the cross-eyed bear" … and I grinned to myself …

_Go for it, House! Make all the jokes you want!_

I walked over and stood boldly in the doorway with my hands on my hips. "House, you're playing dirty, you know?" I made absolutely no attempt to keep the snark, the humor, _or_ the affection out of my voice. I didn't give him a chance to respond, or even think of an equally snarky answer. I just turned on my heel and went back to the stove.

Yeah … I knew there was going to be fireworks somewhere down the line. Big ones! But I also started to think, at that moment, that when the explosions were over and the smoke cleared and the sparks died down, he would allow me to stand at his side to catch him.

And Cuddy too! Cuddy would be there gladly also. Maybe she would have to be there to catch us both … and we would all make it through!

I stood in front of the stove fooling around with breakfast. Listening to the sizzle of bacon in the pan, smelling the fresh coffee brewing on the counter. My mind was a comfortable blank for a few minutes, but inside my head a thought began to form about this day … this moment of hope … knowing I would probably need to look back on it in weeks to come as some sort of lifeline to draw on in order to pull Greg through the knothole of difficulties still to come.

Finally, I took a deep breath. Turned the burners on "low", poured three coffees and walked into the living room with the tray.

Cuddy was just finishing the blood work for morning labs, and was trying in vain to conduct a proper assessment. House was giving her the usual hard time, and they were both enjoying it.

"Hey Wilson!" House grunted, "Does _heavy_ breathing count as _deep_ breathing with pneumonia? 'Cause if it does, then Cuddy's blouse is more effective medically, than those stupid aerosol treatments!"

"Interesting theory," I told him as I set the tray on the coffee table. "I have to look it up, but I'm pretty sure the blouse is missing something in the bronchodilation department."

I watched him leer at Cuddy's chest like a little kid at a lollypop, and caught her response of eyes-to-the-ceiling. "The blouse isn't missing _anything_, Jimmy … they're both in there … in all their awesome abundance. All the heavy breathing is dilating my airways just fine!"

"Good try!" Cuddy muttered. "But I'm still going to finish this assessment and get your neb ready. So you're just going to have to leer at something else while I go get your nebulizer." She stalked off toward the bedroom.

House turned to stare after her, then turned around and grinned at me. "That's okay, Cuddy … the back view's almost as good as the front!"

"Incorrigible!" She growled as she went after the equipment. But she couldn't resist a smile and a wink over her shoulder.

House reached out to grab his coffee mug.

"Wait!" I said. "Cuddy get your temp yet?"

"No …" he groused. "But I'm pretty sure she made it go up a couple of degrees."

Cuddy had reentered the living room by then. Another eye-roll and head shake behind his back spoke of her affectionate exasperation with him. It was becoming an affliction both of us were experiencing more and more often.

I handed him the thermometer. "That should shut him up for a minute or two," I said as we watched him stuff it in his mouth.

But we both ended up laughing when he proved that thermometer-in-mouth did not necessarily mean a cessation of communication, as a parade of suggestive face-crunching and lecherous eye-rolling passed on their way across his expressive features.

When the thermometer beeped, House reached for the coffee mug again. "This is good!" He said in his best "sincere" voice.

I looked at the reading on the thermometer and frowned. "Maybe Cuddy _did_ raise your temp. It's one-oh-one. You feeling okay?"

"Just fine … except for malnutrition. Go make pancakes! Sick people need food, so stop being a doctor and go be a chef!"

"I'm going! Pancakes coming up! Take it easy, okay? Stare at something besides Cuddy's … well, you know … look at something a little less stimulating. Like your pay-per-view cable bill. If you don't pay it, porn-on-demand is just a memory, y'know. "

I headed back to the pancake fixings as Cuddy got the antibiotic running.

A few minutes later, Lisa walked into the kitchen and across to my side. "What happened this morning? How'd he hear the file?"

I shrugged. "Not sure. He said he heard the water running in the kitchen and thought I was cooking. Actually, I was cleaning up the mess I made when I dumped a full pot of coffee all over the place. I didn't hear him over the water running … and he just sat down on the couch and waited for me. But I sat down at the table with the file and didn't hear him at all. Or see him. Thought he was still asleep. Anyway, he heard it. All of it. He said I shouldn't feel guilty since the diagnosis is wrong … and we wouldn't _have_ a diagnosis until after the biopsy … and we'd discuss it then, and only then."

I didn't feel quite comfortable yet sharing my theory that Greg was already aware if the real diagnosis and would process it himself after some passage of time. So I kept that part to myself and didn't say anything to Cuddy. For now.

"What are you going to do?" She asked.

"For the moment, play it his way. Something will give soon, I think. He's already making jokes about it. And there's this: we already know there's nothing _physically_ wrong with his left leg. He's going to be okay!"

Cuddy looked dubious … almost as though she might have thought I was pipe dreaming. I wondered if she was thinking that perhaps _both_ Greg and I were deep into denial and not really dealing with the reality of the situation. But she wasn't saying any of it out loud, if that's what it actually was.

Just as I didn't say anything about the theories I believed were pinging around in Greg's devious and brilliant mind …

Everyone had their secrets, didn't they?

And everyone lied.

So many different ways to tell a lie … or avoid a truth.

I wished it were Friday … and Dick Dickinson were here …

Oooo0oooO

183


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"Keeping Up Appearances"

Lies!

Damn the lies … and the secrets!

And damn those carefully constructed walls!

And damn the cement-block walls thrown up as barriers between one person and the next; walls designed to deceive, disguise, threaten and protect. We all have them. We all do whatever we can to defend ourselves from those who would hurt us … either on purpose or through thoughtless words or careless deeds. We harbor the secrets and defend the lies. And the walls grow higher and higher …

House's walls were high and impenetrable. With parapets! He had lived for eight years with the knowledge that no one in his world was willing to believe the amount of physical pain he lived with every day of his life. No one wanted to hear the complaints of a cripple who could not mask his discomfort at least part of the time. And nobody, it seemed, wanted to be bothered with someone whose limitations did not allow him to keep up.

And so he had closed himself off. Clammed up and cemented his walls with the mortar of bitterness and conceit and sarcasm and arrogance. He had turned his walls into a fortress that surrounded him on all sides. His moats were populated with alligators. His stone battlements defended by lances poisoned with outrage, his bell tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.

No one breached the gates or crossed over the drawbridge. No one had any desire to do so.

My walls were in place also. My walls were constructed of old barn-board and pounded together with bent and rusty nails. Easily breached, but there. My walls were buoyed by the library paste of indecision; creaking in the wind and sagging beneath the rain. But they held off the pain of my uncertainty and the fear of my own failure.

My walls were no match for Greg's, but I hid behind them regardless, so unsure and cautious and fraught with trepidation.

I had a valid argument that stood with me behind _my_ walls, but I did not want to violate his fragile trust or cause him to bring in additional construction crews to rebuild _his_ walls. We had labored too hard and too long to bring them down.

Crazy thoughts painted vivid and complex mind pictures as I stood in the living room after Cuddy left. Indecision on top of inaction. I felt riveted to the spot. Should I keep going along with House's current playful mood? Or should I try to float him back to Earth and speak to him about the truth of his actual diagnosis?

Could he handle the fact that his newest leg pain was a trick of his mind? Or would it cause him to revert back to the long, agonizing years when no one believed the pain he'd had to endure just to get up in the morning? Could I become the cause of his walls springing back into place?

_Damn the walls we build around our hearts!_

I watched him sitting on the couch, blanket draped around him and still behaving as though the conversation of that morning had never happened. His low-grade fever kept him a little subdued, but his ongoing jokes about my current losing streak in our video poker games were getting a little old and a little unfunny.

He got in a few more digs about the new diagnosis, saying that he might even have "psychosomatic sputum" harboring in his lungs and causing a "conversion cough". I had to laugh at that one because it _was _funny … and because it was further proof that he still continued to examine and consider the diagnosis, which fed my hope of a positive and peaceful outcome.

_Wilson … Are you nuts??? (A distinct possibility!)_

I made him soup again at lunchtime … that sickly canned stuff he insists on that looks like old house paint that's sat in a half-sealed can for too long. He ate some of it … not a lot … and I had the distinct impression that he was doing it mostly to keep me off his back than the fact that he was actually hungry. I knew what he was doing and didn't rag him about it, although I wish he'd eaten more than three or four spoonfuls.

Later, he insisted on more games of video poker, knowing he could beat the daylights out of me with it. I indulged him awhile, unenthusiastically, which he caught right away. "Sure hope your luck is better, come Friday night!"

Right! I remembered he'd heard the plans being drawn up for the real poker game as he eavesdropped on the voice file. Actually, I was a little surprised he did not try to squelch Dickinson's visit altogether. Maybe he was intending to sabotage Dick's theories about the possibility of psychosomatic pain, and cause an argument that would effectively stonewall any conversation on the subject that might turn up.

There's that word again: "wall". The "House Construction Company" is a powerful entity. I wonder if we can ever force it out of business …

I pushed my doubts back into submission for the hundredth time and smiled across at him. "I don't think it's gonna matter how good my luck is. Dick might just catch you with his bluff detection skills. I could never put anything over on him back in college. He can read people the way you and I read X Rays. Analyzes things so quick you never know he's doing it. I know you're good, House … but he might be better."

I got a dark frown with that one, and I hoped I hadn't gone too far. Greg's temper could be mercurial at times, and I had taken a definite chance by suggesting that someone else might possibly best him at poker.

He did not rise to the bait, but it was shortly after that that he turned off the little video game and put it down. "I think I need a shower," he said suddenly. He was right. Those sweats are getting kind of ripe … and so was he …"

I looked at him from the corner of my eye and he seemed tired, washed out from the fever. "Why don't you take a nap first?" I suggested. "Give that temp a chance to go down on its own."

He shook his head. "I feel okay. I think I'll feel even better after a shower. Would you mind disconnecting me?"

I decided not to argue. His walls were dangerously close to ramping up again. He did seem to be doing all right. He'd been walking around a little with only the use of the cane, and had not requested the wheelchair. I figured all he had to do was get himself safely to the bathroom, undress and make it to the shower chair. It wasn't like there was any major physical exertion involved. I had to stop worrying so much and allow him to take back some control; even more important, reinforce the trust and keep those damn walls crumbled down where they belonged.

I disconnected the TPN and handed him the cane. I didn't even remind him that he should call me if he needed me.

I did, however, find a whole plethora of good deeds to accomplish in the vicinity of the bedroom-bathroom for the next twenty minutes or so. Pillows to plump, laundry to gather, bedside table to clear off, furniture to straighten, blankets and bedspread to fluff … and on and on …

When I heard the water shut off, I waited a minute before starting toward the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes and laundry. I didn't want to be accused of hovering when he came out of there. But I was still close enough to the bathroom to hear the quiet, grudging call through the door:

"Wilson …"

I dropped the armload of stuff on the hallway table and hurried back to the bathroom. "House? Are you okay?"

The door opened slowly before me, and I saw immediately that the cane was in deadly danger of bending in the middle. He had made it into his skivvies, but no further. "Gotta go to the bedroom and … take that nap now. Might want the chair though …"

The bedroom was a mere few steps away, but when someone feels in danger of falling on his face, the distance seems insurmountable. He was trying valiantly to keep his voice casual, but the note of stress and the pull of pain around his eyes told me he was in trouble.

"Stay there … I'll be right back with the chair." I turned to the bedroom and pulled the wheelchair out into the hallway, dragged it, skittering sideways, to the bathroom doorway and turned it so he could sit down. I remembered the disconcerted look on Greg's face when I'd mentioned how well Dick Dickinson could read people … and I wondered if that comment had caused him to work himself into the state he was in. If that were so, then what the hell would happen on Friday? House liked to solve puzzles. He would be very uncomfortable at being the puzzle!

Was I reading things into this that weren't there?

I turned back and saw again the strained face, the slack jaw, and the pain-glazed eyes. I tried to figure out whether … and if … and how much … assistance Greg would allow me to offer right then.

He was gripping the doorframe with his free hand. The other one gripped the handle of the cane to the extent that the entire cane was trembling. So I stepped around the wheelchair and gripped both his elbows in my hands, lowering him gently downward. I moved him the short distance to the bed, thankful to be able to get him up there before the encroaching spasm built any further.

Greg turned his head toward the wall, his roughened voice wafting back to me. "I'm gonna nap now … shut the door on your way out, will ya?"

"Fat chance, buddy!" I said softly, and I sat down on the edge of the bed as close to him as I could get within the limits of propriety.

In spite of the fact that his back was turned, I could still see that his eyes were closed tightly and both hands balled into fists at his sides to keep from digging into the muscle of his leg. Beads of sweat popping out on his forehead had nothing to do with his fever. He spoke one word, pulled from his throat in anguished desperation:

"Please!"

I knew how much it cost him. The heaviness in my own chest made my reply difficult.

"Nope … I'm staying put, pal … and the deal's the same. Medical help … or the support of a friend … or both. Up to you."

He turned with difficulty to look up at me. He must have understood that I meant what I said. Maybe he was beginning to grasp the fact that being cared for by someone who cared deeply for him … didn't suck! In that moment, his rigid resolve to hide his pain from the world, broke. Another wall came tumbling down. "Both, Jimmy. Both!"

I was glad I'd thought to pre-draw two 5mg syringes. I didn't want to leave his side for any reason, and the administering of them would prevent him from seeing me with my eyes wet and brimming. I retrieved the medication and a flush from the drug box. I then set down at his side again to administer it.

Nothing was said by either of us while I pushed the med, concentrating fiercely on the task. Greg's eyes remained closed as he concentrated on breathing his way through it. I was thankful he couldn't see my face. No words from me would have brought him any consolation at that moment anyway. I managed to maintain a warm and respectful silence with just the touch of my hand on his arm. When I finished the flush, I set the syringes down and reached for his pulse.

The surprise came when he opened his eyes at last and gripped his fingers gently around my wrist, and I'm almost certain he was being careful not to inflict the same strength with which he'd hurt my hand nearly a week before. How he managed that kind of consideration through his own dark discomfort, I don't know, but I could almost feel his caring deep in my stomach. He could be so tender when he chose …

His eyes rolled upward and locked with my own. Did he see my tears? "Why?" He asked.

"Why what?" I thought I understood what he was asking, but I was afraid I had no answer to give him.

"For years you told me the pain was in my head. You said I was an addict. You wanted me to see a shrink. Now you think you've had your diagnosis confirmed. Yet, here you are … treating my pain. Why now?"

I could see the spasm ebbing at last; see the muscle contractions slowly relaxing beneath the skin of his thigh. I knew my response would be very important to him. As his gaze continued to lock with mine, I believed I finally had an answer that would serve us both.

"I watched what you were going through for a lot of years … and that's all I did. I watched while you suffered. I guess I … didn't want to think about it too much. Twelve days ago … when you collapsed … I had my eyes opened for the first time … and I …"

I ran out of words and out of breath and out of courage. This was why he defined me. This was how he lent me the strength to see things through. His confidence strengthened my walls of "barn board" and replaced my library paste with a little of his mental concrete. I ducked my chin just enough to keep him from witnessing the condition of my emotions, and tried to compose myself before I attempted to say anything else. It was only a few short words, but they would be the most heart-wrenching words I'd ever speak. And the most difficult. So I took a deep breath and lifted my head, allowing him to see all the truth my eyes were capable of giving him. Those four painful words came out of me in two separate, broken sentences:

"I saw. You suffer …"

Greg knew. He knew that those words I'd choked out over swallowed sobs were all the honesty I could offer him. Those … along with the regret of trying to ignore all he'd gone through for so many years while his best friend stood by and almost scoffed at his pain.

Greg acknowledged all the unspoken guilt that flooded out with the admission, and his fingers tightened very gently on my wrist that he still held in his hand. I saw an oddly apologetic look in his eyes then. He was hesitant when he offered acknowledgment. "It's real, you know. The pain."

I didn't even have to think about the answer to that one. My voice began to regain some strength when I was finally able to answer. "I know. Whatever the cause, the pain is real. And it will be treated."

"Glad we're on the same page there, anyway!" His voice was weak, but he was trying for the old sardonic tone anyway. He still wanted me to know he disagreed with the diagnosis.

So I nodded and acknowledged him in return.

I hid the relief behind my words. Walls! House knew his pain was finally being taken seriously, and now that the hurdle had been crossed and the tension eased somewhat, he allowed the morphine and the pain relief to ease him into sleep. He fought it as long as he could, almost seeming to await my permission to give in to it.

I removed my hand from his grasp by moving my opposite hand down along his arm to ease his fingers away. "Catch that nap now. You're a real handful, ya know? I could sure use the break!"

I saw him smile and let his eyes go shut.

The only thing I had energy left for, was to shake my head in my usual fond exasperation, then silently slide off the bed and leave the room.

Some walls were down for good. Others remained standing. Only one thing had taken a definite hit today: A lot of the old cement was beginning to crack along the seams …

Oooo0oooO

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	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

"You'll Never Have Muscles if You Don't Eat Your Spinach!"

I leaned against the doorjamb … it was getting to be kind of a habit lately … watching him sleep. Again, like a child, open and innocent and vulnerable, the boneless look of him took about ten years off his age … if you didn't look too hard at the graying hayfield of stubble decorating the lower planes of his face. He reminded me of someone under anesthesia in the way he sprawled loosely beneath the light blanket. He was still in his skivvies: clean boxer shorts and an old white tee shirt. He smelled of Irish Spring soap and Old Spice deodorant. His temp had gone down and vitals were good. His breathing wasn't yet showing the improvement I'd have liked, but his 02 sats were low-normal.

The emotion-charged talk we'd had earlier took a lot out of me as well as Greg, and I was feeling a little washed out myself. I made sure he was all right, and then caved in to the desire to take a nap myself. I turned around and headed silently for the living room. I set the alarm on my watch for two hours and stretched out on the nest of pillows on the couch.

I remember nothing between the time I flopped there and the time the alarm went off very close to my ear. I pushed up and stretched my bones in the usual manner, feeling curiously refreshed.

I went back to Greg's room right away to check on him, feeling a lot like a new father must feel when left in charge of his infant for the first time. He was still sleeping, still looking all dish-raggy and comfortable, so I decided to skip the aerosol until he woke up on his own. The only bothersome thing was that damn temp! The tympanic reading hovered right around one hundred, and I was glad they'd have the blood culture results to us soon.

Right then, I figured, would be a pretty good time to give Dick that daily call and bring him up to speed on what was going on. When he answered he already knew who was on the line, and we didn't waste time on preliminaries. The first thing I told him was that House knew the diagnosis, and as expected, rejected it.

"He didn't get angry, Dick," I said. "He just denied it completely. Even calmly. And the good thing is … I can tell that he's at least _thinking_ about it. Making jokes … comments. When his left leg spasmed today, he didn't turn down my help."

"What help did you offer?" Dick asked softly.

"The usual. I let him know I wasn't going to leave him alone, but I admit he tried to get rid of me in the beginning. I knew he needed the meds, but I gave him the choice. We talked a little afterwards, and he seemed relieved that we'll continue to treat the pain."

Dick paused a moment to take all that in before he continued. "I don't blame him there. As you already know, the medical community is pretty well split down the middle on that. Half of them believe psychosomatic symptoms don't require medical treatment. I don't agree with that … and I'm glad you don't either. It can be devastating for the patient …"

When Dick said that, my mind flew back to all the times I'd ignored the swift changes in Greg's demeanor when no one made any attempt to help him, and he'd had to ride out the prolonged agonies alone. That ignorance and inaction was what started the building up of his walls, forcing people away with ridicule and anger when he was having a bad day, or when his pain was at its peak. All of us had walked away and left him to fight it by himself. No wonder he was the way he was. He'd almost had no choice! His naturally caustic personality had done the rest. But I was his best friend. I should have known.

I brought my mind back into focus as Dick continued:

"They're already having the veracity of their illness questioned by people who think they're malingering or seeking drugs … and then they're left to deal with the very real symptoms on their own. I've rarely seen something like that have a good outcome."

Exactly what I'd been thinking! But my answer was another sad admission, another painful truth and another board torn away from my fragile wall of denial. "Yeah … well … there was a time, pretty recently in fact, where I'd have doubted the need for treatment myself. I can't believe I ever thought that pain could just be ignored if it wasn't caused by the body."

"Many people feel that way, Jimmy," Dick assured me. "Even professionals who should know better. When I lecture on the subject, the example I use is a tension headache. Everyone can relate to that. There's a lot of surprise when I tell them that, in the strictest sense, it's a psychosomatic illness. It's the brain dumping its overload of stress on the body. Then the body manifests the psychological stress through physical symptoms. So it's a psychosomatic reaction … pure and simple."

"Wish I'd heard that lecture of yours a long time ago," I said ruefully. "Might have saved House a lot of unnecessary difficulties. But I know it now. No sense looking back, right?"

If I look back, it'll only be to remind myself of the damage I did, and also remind myself to never, never do it again!

"Right!" I heard him say. He seemed pleased that I wasn't sending myself head-over-heels on another guilt trip over this. "You sound a lot better yourself, James. I'm really glad to know you're handling this in a healthy way. It will benefit you both."

We talked a little more after that. I inquired after Ardais and found out that he was visiting an aunt and a cousin in TelAviv for a week, and would not return until next Monday. I had wanted to invite him to attend the poker game with us on Friday, but since he was out of the country, that was obviously impossible. We reminisced about college days a few minutes longer and then rang off.

I took a deep breath and let it out explosively. When I talked to Dickinson, I always felt a little better afterward.

I checked on Greg who was still sleeping, and decided to let him have another half hour while I gathered the nebulizer and the aerosol supplies and got it all ready to begin another treatment.

I was alerted by the sound of coughing from the bedroom. I grabbed the armload of med supplies and headed back down the hallway. He was awake. I dumped everything at the foot of the bed and smiled at him. "You're coughing. Good sign. Pneumonia's breaking up."

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," came the snarky greeting. "I missed that class on pneumonia in med school … appreciate you filling in that gap in my education."

And I referred to you awhile ago as innocent and endearing and vulnerable … why?

"Any time," I told him, unfazed by the sarcasm and the "Popeye" look of one eye closed and half his face scrunched up. All he needed was the pipe! I prepped the neb and continued as though I hadn't heard him. "I'm gonna call the grocery store and order some stuff. Any special requests?"

He looked at me beseechingly from beneath those beetled brows, and I saw the lower lip curl back. I figured I was in for it, even though he wasn't feeling well. He'd gone a very long time without sniping at me, and was about to make up for it. "Haven't seen a potato chip around here for weeks … or a Twinkie!"

"Food, House! Sustenance! Nutrition! Or did you miss that class too?"

"And those little chocolate donuts … you know … the ones with the sprinkles … ?"

I pursed my lips, counted to ten, and saw how much he was enjoying his own silliness, so I continued to play along. "Okay … now that we've covered those life-threatening salt and sugar deficiencies you've been suffering from, how about something from the protein group?"

"Beef jerky! Great idea!" He was grinning, looking at me with expectation and waiting for another comeback.

I tried not to disappoint. "Got it! Fish … chicken … eggs … good choices." I turned on the nebulizer and handed the treatment across. He immediately favored me with a scowl and a glare.

"I'm coughing on my own now, so why are we still doing this?" He grumbled.

"Because the hydrocodone suppresses the cough. Because you're still running a fever. Because you're not ambulatory." I stood there with my arms folded and glared back until I saw him bite down on the mouthpiece. "But most important … because it buys me a few minutes of peace and quiet!" I returned the continued glare with raised eyebrows and a smirk and then walked out of the bedroom to call for a few extra groceries to be delivered to the apartment.

I heard the neb machine turn off a few minutes later, so I headed back to the bedroom. I moved the equipment off the bed and stood holding onto it. "Given any thought to what you'd really like for dinner? We should have some actual food here soon."

"Yeah," he said. "Potato chips drowning in onion dip, with a side of sour cream. Twinkies for dessert."

I gave him the wide-eyed treatment. "Now that's just uncanny! Baked chicken, brown rice, asparagus … that's exactly what I was thinking too. You got it!"

I turned on my heel, and the neb apparatus swung along at my side. I suddenly felt very good about things.

Behind me, the mumbling revved up to a shout:

"Why do you even bother to ask?

"More to the point … why the hell do I bother to answer?"

I was laughing out loud as his grousing echoed behind me all the way down the hallway.

Because we're best friends, House … and we both know it! Always have been … always will be. Now shut-the-hell up awhile!

ouse

Oooo0oooO

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	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

"Don't Go To Bed Mad … Just Go To Bed!"

I stood propped in the kitchen doorway, watching him pick unenthusiastically at his dinner, when his phone rang, startling us both. I walked over and laid my hand on the receiver, knowing the call must be coming from the hospital. Not Cuddy. She would have used my cell phone number. The Caller ID gave the number of the Diagnostics Department at PPTH, and I smiled.

_Guess who!_

I looked over at him, not bothering to keep the smirk off my face. "Unhhh … you up to answering this? It's one of your people … and I'm the one around here who's supposed to be sick and wishing he were dead …"

He nodded, deadpanning me with a Russell Crowe glare, and held out his hand. I picked up the receiver and placed it directly into his outstretched palm.

"Yeah?"

I turned my back to keep from betraying my presence to the caller.

"Cameron. What are you doing there so late? Got a case?" I watched him as he listened, shifting his eyes around the room, not happy at what he heard. "Cuddy? I don't care what she said about not bothering me with cases. Wilson's got the flu. Flu's boring. No, I don't want you defying her orders. You know me … I'm all about the rules!"

He sighed, eyes lighting on my face in a silent and beseeching manner that made me cover my mouth to keep from laughing aloud. "He's not doing well, no," he continued into the phone. "High fever … giving him some really crazy ideas. Seems to think this is all a game of 'Let's Pretend'."

My eyes widened and I shot him a dirty look. His return expression turned mischievous, but I could discern a moment of anger that manifested itself fleetingly, then gone.

"Me? Just great. Of course I sound funny. I'm a funny guy. No … _not_ getting the flu. It's tiring work, keeping him oriented to the reality of his illness."

His not-so-subtle digs were beginning to rankle, but I was also becoming concerned. He was looking a little flushed, and I didn't care much for the way he was breathing. "Get her off the phone!" I whispered, pantomiming a throat-slitting gesture. "Hang up … now!"

"He'll be fine. Got a great doctor … not necessary … this is my very bestest bud, Cameron. Doesn't trust anybody but me. _'Course_ I'm not insulting you … would I do that? This is Jimmy, and I'll handle it. I wouldn't trust his care to Albert Schweitzer himself. Look, Cuddy's got us quarantined anyway. The rules, remember? Don't mess with the boss lady! Gotta go … hearing some really unattractive retching noises … need to toss a barf bucket in his direction. Bye …"

He handed the phone back to me and began a lengthy bout of machine-gun coughing.

I hung the receiver back on its base quickly, and forgot my growing annoyance almost immediately. "I think your fever's up again. Let's get a temp."

The reading was just over 101 and the pulse ox 91 per cent. "I'm going to call PG. We should at least have preliminary culture results by now."

The cultures showed that the PICC line was clean, so I decided to try a broader-spectrum antibiotic, in case the pneumonia might be resistant to the ceftriaxone. I called the hospice pharmacy and placed an order for cefepime. Because Greg had initially shown improvement on the ceftriaxone, I started to think we might be dealing with mixed organisms. Now we could really use that sputum specimen!

I approached him again. He looked rough. "House … just talked with the lab over at PG, and we're clear on the PICC. I'm going to switch you to cefepime, but a specimen would really help. Think you can manage it?" I could tell his fever was still on its way up, and he wasn't feeling so hot.

His answer was short and final. "No." He closed his eyes and his body sagged.

"Let's try an aerosol," I said. "… see if that helps bring anything up, okay?"

He didn't answer. I sighed and left to go collect the equipment and a sterile container. When I came back, he was pretending to be asleep. His eyelids were quivering. "Come on," I said, trying a different tack, "let's try and get this done. It's almost time for your evening neb anyway." He sighed, flung an arm across his eyes and shook his head. End of non-conversation.

I found myself gritting my teeth, trying very hard to be patient. "Look … if you're feeling that lousy, let's just get you back to bed. I'll bring you some ibuprofen for the fever, and we'll try this in an hour or so."

He gave no indication he'd even heard me. He pulled the blanket up across his body and turned his head to the back of the couch.

He worried me, but I tried to ignore it. I picked up the tympanic thermometer and moved the blanket away from his face. "Let me get a temp …"

I inserted the probe into House's ear canal, and at that second an arm flew up and knocked the thermometer out of my hand to send it clattering across the floor. Stunned, I backpedaled quickly and stared down at him.

He turned around with surprising agility and sat up. His fever-bright eyes were set and angry, his jaw hard and inflexible and his respiration rapid. "Just get the hell away from me! Go away! I'm sick of this, _all_ of it! What are you worried about, anyway? Probably brought the pneumonia on myself, 'cause I'm too dumb to know the difference between pain and emotion … so I've gotta be too dumb to understand my own health, right? So it's all in my head! Doesn't matter what you do. I'm gonna either get better or die anyway!"

He was out of breath and he continued to stare at me with unfocused eyes, starting to rub at his thigh with an almost frenetic rhythm.

"What's the matter with your leg?" I demanded. I tried to speak calmly, tame the situation down a few notches. It wouldn't be good for him to let it go out of control and escalate beyond the point of reason. Somehow my concern and fear and frustration made the question come out sounding angry and challenging. I moved closer to his side.

"Absolutely nothing!" He was beginning to dig his fingertips into the muscle. "Told you … I'm just too stupid to know when I'm perfectly healthy. Let's just forget that I might be too smart to create pain!"

I was scared for him. Again. His breathing was labored, grating and metallic. He was clearly in pain and showing no signs of beginning to calm down. My hands were trembling when I reached out to him in a pacifying gesture. He lashed out, grabbed my wrists and propelled me back and away from him.

Anger gave his meager strength a boost and I stumbled back into the edge of the coffee table, sitting down hard on its surface. The loss of balance startled me and something snapped. In spite of myself, and all my efforts to keep from lashing out at this very ill friend, I lost it. I forgot his physical fragility; forgot the building leg spasm, the labored respirations, the rising fever. I forgot my own medical training.

Suddenly I wasn't a doctor. I wasn't even a rational human being. Tiny spots of red were popping in my field of vision, and I was holding my breath as though sinking over my head beneath the surface of an ocean from which I couldn't escape. I was drowning and helpless and in a situation I could no longer control. I was finally and completely overwhelmed by it all, and angry and frustrated and beginning to panic.

I was killing him!

I lashed out …

"You're right!" I screamed. "Absolutely correct, as usual! The brilliant Dr. House has it all figured out. We don't need to treat _anything!_ We're just wasting our time because you can just _will_ yourself well! Or dead … let's not forget that option!"

I was breathing rapidly too. And shaking like a leaf. The tiny corner of my mind that tried to tell me I was not acting rationally was not helping the situation. I knew I was over the top, and didn't care. He was playing games with life and I was finished with the effort at diplomacy. My patience was gone. In the corner of my mind where sanity still rested, taking a time out, I knew this argument should not be happening. But there we were … and I had to get Greg to face the truth.

Somehow.

"Don't try to tell me you're too smart to be having psychosomatic pain! Look at you! That argument would be a lot more credible if I hadn't seen you self-induce a migraine just so you could tell yourself a twenty-year grudge was valid! Or fracture your own fingers to win a damned bet!

"Last week you let yourself get to the brink of hypovolemic shock rather than admit you were having trouble with your meds. Yeah House … you're smart … and you're self- destructive. Dangerous combination! Makes you a prime candidate for psychosomatic pain, you know that?"

I couldn't help myself. I was gesturing wildly, throwing my arms around, tears running down my face, hair hanging in my eyes and spittle flying out of my mouth in my intensity.

Greg looked up at me from his efforts to calm the spasm in his leg. His eyes were slits, the creases at their corners spreading outward and stretching the skin. The deep creases near his mouth that sometimes defined one of his very best features … the dimples that gave him the four-year-old look … were creased to hardness and drawing his mouth into a thin, straight line across his face. He was in pain and it was getting worse. But his anger was even more intense. "Do us both a favor!" He yelled. "Get the hell out of here! And you're right … with friends like you, I don't _need _to hold onto twenty-year grudges!"

His words carried the sting of a slap in the face.

_He's right! I've got to get out of here and calm down. _

I whirled and ran for the kitchen, but the dizziness hit like a fist from the darkness, and I grabbed the edge of the bookcase to keep from falling on my face. I clung there, wondering what the hell had happened. I was dizzy, fingertips tingling, hyperventilating. I straightened by degrees and forced my breathing to slow down. I could feel his pain-clouded eyes on me as I made my way unsteadily into the kitchen.

Beyond the doorframe, another wave of dizziness forced me into the butcher-block table, and I hunched over it, moving hand-over-hand to the sink.

I heard the sound of Greg's cane approaching unsteadily behind me, but I hadn't the strength to turn or stand upright or even speak. My breath was caught in my throat, my lips dripping drool into the sink, and tears of humiliation joined the flood of embarrassing bodily fluids gushing down my cheeks and off the point of my chin. What the hell did he want now?

"What's the matter with you?" His voice was harsh.

I couldn't answer, so he moved closer. I felt his disturbing body heat close to my arm, but the only thing of which I was capable, was waving my hand weakly in an effort to force him back and away from me. That didn't work. I was shaking too violently, so I hunched my shoulders, effectively shutting him out, and leaned further over the sink. Then, when he made no move to back away, I lowered my head onto my crossed arms and stood there with legs splayed, willing him to just let me alone.

I was dimly aware that Greg was moving around, doing something or other close by, but I didn't acknowledge him until I felt the tentative tap on my arm. He had filled a glass with water and was holding it out to me, leaving himself vulnerable, with only one hand on the cane and no other support.

That impressed me.

"Here," he said. He thrust the glass into my numb, unresisting fingers, forcing my head around and up to look into those sad eyes. I curled my fingers around it, searching his face dumbly. But I couldn't clasp it, and the glass shattered in the sink, splashing water everywhere.

Greg sighed and filled a second glass, turned and set it on the counter. I was still staring at him stupidly as he put down the cane and rested both hands firmly on my shoulders, propelling me to the nearest chair.

I didn't even try to resist. This shouldn't be happening … he'd been going into a leg spasm, my stupefied brain tried to tell me …

But Greg was still there, now picking up the glass again, handing it to me. In the other outstretched palm, a lorazepam tablet appeared. I looked at the water glass, at the pill, then into his face. His eyes were still sad. He bent down until those eyes were on the same level as my own.

"Take. It."

He waited until I'd swallowed the pill and drank the water. He set the glass back on the counter, then slowly turned and walked with effort out of the kitchen.

I sat there. What had just happened?

Fifteen minutes? An hour? A day? Whatever. I didn't know.

Once the quiet and the solitude and medication did their work, I rose, stiff-limbed, as reason returned and I remembered the flare-up and the angry exchange of words with my friend who was ill and in pain and experiencing respiratory distress and fever …

I hurried into the living room and experienced a moment of panic when Greg wasn't there. I continued to the bedroom and stopped short in the doorway.

He was in bed. Fresh sweats were pulled up into place over the boxer briefs. He was resting against his pillows. Aerosol containers were discarded at the foot of the bed. He had obviously just finished giving himself a treatment. The sterile cup sat on his night table with a specimen of sputum in it and tightly capped. He looked up at me with a resigned expression as he fiddled with the nasal cannula, fitting it over his head even as I closed the distance between us. "Forgot to get the ibuprofen when I was in the kitchen," he said. His voice was matter-of-fact and unchallenging. "I had to disconnect the IV … so you might want to get that too. If you don't mind …"

I nodded dumbly and turned away from the doorframe, not meeting his eyes. Was I dreaming? What was in that pill he'd given me? Was I hallucinating too? The man was actually cooperating!

When I got back, I handed him the pills and reconnected the TPN, still without saying anything. Then I sat down in the bedside chair and took the chance of asking a question.

"How's your leg?"

"Fine. Must've been a false alarm.

"Good. That's … good." I stood and retrieved my stethoscope. Still stunned, I knew I was being more gentle than usual when I assessed his breath sounds. Perhaps if I refrained from rattling the bars of the cage, the wildlife would remain calm. Finished, I folded the stethoscope and put it back on the bedside table. "Can I get you anything?"

He lifted his eyes shyly.

_Shyly???_

He smiled a tiny bit … and I saw the dimples return for just a second.

"A donut would sure taste good about now …"

My jaw dropped. It did. I know it did. But I couldn't have stopped it if my life had depended upon it. I stood looking at that frail man on the bed … the stubborn child … the loving friend who found it very hard to express that love …

House might have initiated the painful incident we'd both just suffered through, but he'd also done his damnedest … in his own endlessly baffling way … to put it to rights again.

And he had!

"Hmmmm … I bet two donuts would taste even better," I told him softly.

Shaking my head in utter amazement, I stood up and left the room, headed for the kitchen and a search for goodies that might somehow fill the bill …

Oooo0oooO

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	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

"Delightful, DeLoverly, Delirious!"

I probably lingered in the kitchen a little too long … rummaging through cupboards and pantry, breadbox and refrigerator … looking for the box of doughnuts I knew was there _somewhere_. At the same time shifting mental gears yet again, and calming myself from the near-Donnybrook that had just occurred between Greg and me.

There it was … the box of doughnuts …in the oven, for crying out loud! Four left. That would work. I pulled the box out and set it down on the butcher-block table. Opened it up. Sugar glazed, with sprinkles. He would be in heaven! And I could feel my breath coming easier, my hands not trembling so much, and my burning eyes beginning to clear up. I still had the sniffles, but that was okay. They would go away when my breath finally finished heaving and the hitching of my hands finished calming down.

Milk! Yeah! Two glasses. Tall ones. I poured them, taking my time, as everything seemed to calm down at once. My respirations evened out, the waterworks dried up, my hand did not shake the milk jug, and I took a deep breath that didn't have hiccups in it.

Gradually, I put on my "best-friend" face and picked up the tray with the goodies.

I walked into his room with the tray in my hands, and he was watching for me. There was a smirk on his face. "Just couldn't resist those amazing little multi-colored sprinkles, could ya?"

I _could_ have groused back that the "little multi-colored sprinkles" had been entirely his choice. But I used laudable restraint. Instead, I set the tray on his night table and smiled at him. "Actually, I was having one of those life-threatening sugar deficiencies myself. That … and I figure my cholesterol's probably too low …"

"Ah … so they're _medicinal_ doughnuts." He nodded sagely and eyed the goody tray. "Now, there's a rationalization worthy of the great Gregory House himself. You're learnin', Jimmy!"

"I'm trying," I told him. I bit into one of the doughnuts and took a swallow of milk. I continued chewing for a moment before noticing that he was not following my lead. The snack he'd requested lay untouched on the tray. "So how come I'm the only one eating here?"

"Antibiotic's messing with my stomach, I guess. Not as hungry as I thought I was. I'll eat 'em later." He looked away from me quickly and leaned back into his pillows.

I watched him for a moment. His skin was still flushed. His lips had somehow become dry and chapped, eyes red-rimmed while my back had been turned. "Your fever's still high … ibuprofen hasn't kicked in yet. Hospice should be here shortly with the cefepime. By this time tomorrow, you'll be feeling well enough to win a doughnut-eating contest. And the lab courier'll be here soon too. I'll get the blood now. Then I'll let you rest awhile."

I took the tray back to the kitchen quickly and then returned to draw the blood. I bagged the tubes and the sputum specimen for the courier. The messenger from Hospice came sometime shortly after the courier left, and I was anxious to hang the new antibiotic.

I went back to his room again, thinking he was still awake. He'd moved his body into an awkward position toward the door and was shifting around listlessly. But when I turned on the bedside light, he wasn't conscious, but lost deeply somewhere inside a fever-induced dream. I hung the cefepime and reached for the tympanic thermometer. The 103.5 temp surprised me. It was over an hour, and the Motrin should have been working by then.

I sat down cautiously beside him on the edge of the bed. He was mumbling something incoherent in his sleep and I didn't want to startle him. I placed my hand gently on his forearm, and the skin was so hot it was uncomfortable beneath my fingers.

_Oh Christ!_

"House?" Softly. "House? Wake up …"

His eyes opened wide; dazed. He struggled to sit up.

"Easy, buddy … it's okay. Your fever's way up. I'm gonna try some acetaminophen. I need to get a listen to your lungs too. Just relax. It's okay." He was still trying to sit up, and I heard the sibilant sound of his breathing. I stopped trying to restrain him and drew his body forward, helping him to a sitting position against the pillows.

He was a little more alert when he felt my hands on him, but he still didn't feel fully oriented. "What's going on? Hot in here. Hard to breathe …" He looked around himself, and it worried me at how quickly he had gone from coherent to blank. Not good.

"Can you open a window?" He rasped.

"Gonna do better than that," I told him. "Gonna get you some Tylenol and some cool cloths. And let's go up to three liters on the 02, okay?" I kept my voice soothing and assured, and saw that he was focusing in on me, gradually becoming cognizant of my close proximity and regarding me obediently, with the trust of a child; as though he thought I held all the answers to all the questions in the world at that moment.

I took advantage of his acquiescence to prepare an extra aerosol treatment. I disentangled from him slowly and handed him the mouthpiece. "Breathe as deeply as you can. We've got to get some of that junk broken up. The first dose of cefepime's already running; we'll be on top of this in twelve hours or so. Keep up with the deep breaths. I've gotta go get the Tylenol. I'll be right back. You okay?"

He nodded, still inhaling the neb. I hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a bowl and filled it with cool water and a couple of washcloths. I grabbed the bottle of acetaminophen too, and hurried back to the bedroom.

He'd dozed off with the mouthpiece still clenched in his teeth. The treatment was finished, so I gently removed it and shut down the machine. He stirred, opened his eyes and reached for the bottle I still held in my hand.

"Let's wait just a minute on that. Try to give me some good coughs first." I put the bottle down and reached for the stethoscope. I listened carefully as he coughed willingly, and then looked up to meet his eyes. "Good! Breathing getting easier now?"

He took a few more breaths, deepening each in turn. "Not suffocating anymore, if that's what you mean," he said, and he sounded more like his snarky self. "But it's still too hot in here."

I handed him two Tylenol and wrung out one of the washcloths. He took the pills, took the washcloth and passed it half-heartedly across his forehead. He closed his eyes and let his arm drop heavily onto the surface of the bed. "That's better," he grunted. I picked the cloth out of his hand.

"Liar." I said, just loud enough that he could hear. I rewet the cloth, balled it up and sponged it across his face. He didn't object other than to lift his chin a little, and I swabbed his neck too. I leaned him forward and gathered the hem of his tee shirt, pulling it easily up his back, over his shoulders, arms and head, and tossed its sweaty bulk in a heap on the floor. I laid one of the cloths around his neck, another on his chest, and sponged down his arms and face in a continuous gentle motion. I was very aware of his eyes watching my every move.

"You make a damn fine nurse," he mumbled. "Not much to look at … but you've got that 'bedside manner' thingy down pat!" He sighed in comfort. It was music to my ears, but I didn't let on.

"Did I just hear you right?" I said instead. "You actually said something that borders on _nice_? You must still be delirious from the fever."

"Yup. Delirious. Fever. Uh huh." I saw the lines of his face relax, and he didn't even bother to open his eyes again.

"Too bad we can't find a way to get rid of the pneumonia and keep the fever," I muttered sarcastically. "You're a lot easier to deal with when your brain's frying."

"Uh huh … easier. Fried brain."

I shook my head, but he couldn't see me. No matter. A "nice" Greg House was … interesting at the least … but I was thinking I preferred the griping one!

The fever finally broke about a half hour later, and I didn't need the thermometer to tell me so. He was bathed in sweat, his teeth were chattering, and he'd gone from bitching about the heat to bitching about the cold … and what moron had opened the window?

His tee shirt was on the floor, the bedclothes were soaked, and he couldn't stay there in that messed-up bed. So I hid the cane under the bed and pulled the wheelchair close enough for him to slide across into it with a little help. "Come on!" I told him. "A nice tepid shower will make you feel a lot better. I'll get your sheets changed, we'll do your meds and you can get some sleep."

I disconnected the IV, removed the 02 and helped him get his legs around and transfer to the wheelchair. He was steadier than I'd expected him to be, but still, the fever, and all his activity earlier in the evening, left him with little energy.

When we made it into the bathroom, I asked him if he needed help.

Wrong question!

"Hell no!" He accompanied that with an indignant glare, and I knew I'd turned the corner. He would tolerate only so much … even from me. _Especially_ from me!

Just a little bit of sweet, docile Gregory House goes a long, long way! I was sort'a glad to have the cranky, miserable, domineering, pissy, sarcastic, verbally abusive and snarky friend back.

I left him to his own devices, trusting him to get his clothing off, get out of the chair and onto the shower chair and adjust the water spray on his own. It was none of my business.

He did not want me watching him as though he were a three-year-old, even though I _was _ a doctor and had seen such things before …

Propriety is propriety and pride is pride. Privacy is privacy and modesty is modesty, after all.

I was smiling to myself, as I remember it now … all the way to the linen closet for fresh sheets to put on his bed …

Oooo0oooO

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	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

"Wilson In Wonderland"

It was late when I finally got Greg settled for the night. I stayed by his side awhile, barely awake myself, until I could be sure he was comfortable and asleep. It didn't take very long. These bouts with fever and nausea, combined with the damned leg spasms, pretty much made mincemeat out of his strength and stamina. He was out like a light in less than ten minutes.

After that I could turn my attention to my own needs.

The sudden lack of physical activity turned my head to tomato soup for a few minutes. I sat there in the chair at the side of his bed and just allowed my body to melt into the seat and both arms to hang loose over the sides, fingers almost trailing on the floor.

I woke myself with a jolt, and sat upright in the chair. Oh man! I needed to grab some sleep while I had the chance. Sitting here watching this human puzzle while he imitated a buzz saw wasn't "cutting" it. Even my own jokes were boring me to death! I needed a shower, a shave, a shampoo and something suitable to sleep in. Sitting here like a bump on a log wasn't getting me anywhere, and the time, she was a-wasting!

I pushed out of the chair quietly … _why_ was I being so quiet? Greg wouldn't wake up, even if I planted a firecracker under the bed! I looked down at him for a moment with a brother's love. With his head turned sideways on the pillow, his scruff looking like a pine forest, and his mouth wide open with sounds emanating from it that would put a power drill to shame, it would _take_ a brother to love him! I smiled and shook my head and then bent down to snap off the light and left. I didn't even bother to close the door.

I shaved quickly while I was in the shower, hurried through the rest of it and pulled on a dilapidated pair of Greg's scrubs and one of his old tee shirts. Good enough. I was supposed to be sick, and I did indeed look the part. I straightened the pillows and blankets on the couch and flopped down, pulled a blanket over me. Good night world!

After that, my over-stimulated brain began to lead me along corridors and vistas that I had not visited in years. These dreams were not fantasies like the one I had enjoyed a few nights ago. These were Broadway dramatizations of events in my life that I had not invited into my conscious mind for as long as I could remember.

I wondered what the significance was, even as the dreamscapes began to unfold one-by-one. I could only return to such places in memory, for they did not exist anymore.

Suddenly I was again in college; those carefree days of my youth, when every word I read stayed fresh in my mind, and the realization that I was actually on my way to becoming a doctor, dominated every waking thought. It seemed as though they were now beginning to dominate my non-waking thoughts as well. I relaxed like a discarded rag doll, and let the images wash over me … taking me back …

We were in Joe Ferguson's dorm, sprawled on the floor of his room with study materials scattered all around us. There was Joe, the only light-complexioned one among us, with his yellow-blonde hair, blue eyes and a devastating smile that made all the girls look twice and gasp with appreciation. Joe paid them no attention. He wanted to be an orthopedist, and there was nothing on Earth he would allow to come between him and his goal.

There was me, the "pretty-boy" Jewish kid with the honey chestnut hair, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows crawling across my forehead like winter caterpillars. Unlike Joe, I could not ignore a pretty face or a tale of woe, and was often known as a bleeding heart and a pushover for the cute girls. I had to admit it. I was that!

Then there was Dick. My best bud. He was dark, thin-faced; horn-rimmed glasses obscuring otherwise beautiful eyes. They were his best feature. But he was not a handsome boy. He looked a lot like Jerry Orbach, the long-faced New Yorker who had starred on "The Law and Harry McGraw" a couple of years before.

Dick had a crippled right hand; fingers curled permanently against his palm and immovable. Only his thumb worked. But the handicap didn't slow him down. His hand and arm pained him often when the weather got cold or damp, but during those times he took prescription medications that were none of my business. Since he was going into the field of psychology anyhow, the use or non-use of a hand was little deterrent for his intended profession. It was as much a part of him as his nose or his big Adam's apple, and mostly a non-subject.

Ardais Verengi-Degas arrived sometime near the middle of our sophomore year. He, also, was Jewish, and four-or-so years older than the rest of us. He was born in Israel. Beautiful, contradictory Tel Aviv. He came to Canada rather than the USA because he wanted to avoid the silly American sub-culture and earn his psychology doctorate from prestigious McGill University. He just happened to secure lodgings in the same dormitory as the three of us, and ended up sharing a room with Joe when Joe's earlier roommate washed out.

Ardais, later nicknamed "Dais" by the rest of us, was almost six feet four inches tall. He was very dark, of complexion and hair and eyes, and carried long black hair such as none of us had seen since the sixties. His accent was such that the rest of us hung on every word he spoke, and his dignity and polite reserve impressed us no end. We were in awe of him from the first day.

Dais was quick to cut the wheat from the chaff. He knew immediately who all the bullshitters were … and who could be trusted and who could not. He could tell within a few minutes, which ones were sloughing through medical school on cheater's cards, and which ones were working their proverbial butts off to earn their MDs honorably. Nobody messed with Ardais Verengi-Degas, and if they did, he pounded them into the ground with one of his cold, calculating stares.

He stuck with Dick Dickinson and Joe Ferguson and me, and the four of us were a force to be reckoned with on the McGill University campus …

… until things changed a little bit and Ardais and Dick found out that they had been born to be together.

After that I lost track of Dick and Ardais for a few years. When Ardais received his doctorate and went home to Tel Aviv, it was no surprise that Dick went with him. Canada wasn't the only country in the world where a man could earn a degree in psychology, and Dick Richardson had a winning ticket: prodigious intelligence!

I knew they were back … and paired up for life … because Dick emailed me out of the blue. He'd found out where I was working while searching the web for my name.

The dream began to escalate in earnest when I saw myself joining the two of them in Lancaster for their Commitment Union. I'd been working at Princeton-Plainsboro for five or six years then. Soon after I started there, I'd come by this crazy best friend by the name of Gregory House … and my life had not been the same since. In my dream, Greg looked a lot younger. But then, so did I!

I invited him to accompany me to Lancaster, but he scoffed at the idea, saying it would be too much for his leg, and turned me down flat. I shrugged and went on the trip anyhow. I wondered if he was a homophobe …

My dream carried me through the unique commitment ceremony in a hazy glow of unreal images, a little like the edges of a vignette photograph. Dick and Ardais floated through their vows in a shimmering mirror of sideways reality, threaded with silver sparkles like sunlight glinting off the surface of a pond. I could see myself standing alone, watching; feeling like the only human being on an alien world, uncomfortable with the company in spite of myself, but happy for the two of them.

I joined them at the reception and threaded my way among their friends and families, still a little alienated and lost. The dreamscape took me along the fringes of the celebration, and there was no dialogue that I remembered. And when I left them, it was as though I'd been whisked away on a gust of wind, blown to the parking lot and away.

Soon I was in my old Chrysler Cordoba and headed home. The car overheated and left me set a couple miles on the Princeton side of Trenton. I called Greg from a phone booth and asked him to come get me.

He came for me in his own vintage car, an old New Yorker, not much better than the Cordoba, but in much better mechanical shape. All the way home, he bitched about how much his leg hurt … the infarction was only about a year old then … and how I'd really inconvenienced him. Hell! He wasn't even back to work full-time yet, and was still transitioning from crutches to cane. He had nothing better to do! Besides, he needed to get off his butt and blow away some of the lingering stink!

My dream took us directly to his place, and when we got there, my broke-down old car was sitting in the street in front of his second-story apartment house. Must have driven itself home! He hadn't moved to Baker Street yet. In the dream, this building's elevator didn't exist. He had no means to get up there on that leg. He sat down on the front stoop and began to cry. I was so embarrassed that I took pity on him, tossed his ass over my shoulder and carried him up to the second floor.

_Huh? What?? Weird dream!_

He bitched all the way up; squirmed around and almost threw us down twice. I was ready to throttle him.

I got us inside and dumped him onto the couch with no consideration for his leg. He landed with a grunt and glared up at me. The cumbersome black cane clunked onto the floor at his feet. I stared back and felt absolutely nothing. No compassion, no sympathy, and no guilt for what I might have done to hurt him further. What a damned inconsiderate fool! (Him? Or me?)

I stalked into the bathroom, shed my sport jacket, my tie and pulled my shirttail out of my pants. I rolled my sleeves to the elbows and washed my hands in the hottest water I could stand. Walked back to the living room and dropped into the big lounge chair he used to keep across from the piano. I propped my feet up on the stool and toed off both shoes, listening to them drop on the floor one at a time. Now what?

I stared at Greg. He stared at me. Impasse. All through this strange and quasi-accurate dream, still not a word was spoken. I wondered why, but my attention did not stay in one place long enough to give it more than a passing thought.

Did smells count in dreams? Did voices in the background count? I was suddenly, and peripherally, experiencing both. The constantly shifting diorama was changing yet again.

We floated ahead … out of the upstairs apartment on East Side Drive … then to the bungalow on Union … now away from there, and finally to the little town house on Baker Street. Greg's bad leg had never gotten any better. It got worse. Much worse.

I cringed with discomfort when time ratcheted further forward to the night I'd walked away from him as he sat weeping in pain on the floor of his office.

Time passed more quickly. Scenes fluctuated. Images wove in and out, and scenarios I'd witnessed, but ignored, passed by in accelerating succession:

Greg in a hospital bed, screaming in agony … doctors and attendants looking angry, wishing he'd just shut the hell up. Denying him the amount of medication he desperately needed to attain even minimal relief.

Greg in a wheelchair, still in agony, lashing out at those he loved and those he didn't. Losing his rationality and his trust, sending away the only woman he'd ever loved in tears of frustration. Almost did to same thing with me … his so-called best friend. To this day, I don't know what it was that kept me at his side during those terrible months.

Greg on crutches, losing his sense of balance; coming down too hard, too often, on the leg that could no longer support him. Fighting to regain his sense of independence and having to rely on his best friend. (Was I? Still? Sometimes I didn't know, and neither did he.) Waiting on him hand and foot because he had no strength to do for himself.

Greg detoxing like a common junkie because this same "best friend" got some idiotic idea that most of Greg's pain was in his head. If he got off the pills, surely there would be other ways to manage that terrible pain. ("My name is Dr. Gregory House. You can call me Greg. I do not have a _pain management_ problem: I have a _pain_ problem!")

Greg, at the end of his rope and unable to tolerate the unbearable pain any longer; visiting his boss in her office at night, pleading for a shot of morphine in his spine, just to enable him to get relief long enough to sleep and achieve some release … and receiving saline solution instead.

And then he fainted, dead away, on the floor of his office. My mind, in retrospect, saw him unconscious, floating in mists of painful haze with his minions gathered around him, unmoving, staring dumbly down. Unreal reality. I could finally assimilate the fact that the indestructible Gregory House was as vulnerable and as destructible as the rest of us. And as easily hurt. Why in hell hadn't I realized that before?

The moment I'd knelt by his side, the truth came slamming home. This was a human being. He was someone who was my friend, someone I loved. And he was _hurt!_

After all that time, and after all his suffering, I had finally done something about it.

My dream leveled out and the dream monster decided to let me float comfortably for awhile. I drifted upward, away from the Earth and into my sweet fantasy world of clouds and streams and fields of daisies and fragrant forests and cool glades.

The sensations of background voices and pleasant aromas drifted back, and involuntarily my head lifted in that direction. I had a sensation of my hair falling into my face. I lifted my hand and brushed it away.

"Everything all right?"

"Rough night. Made him take an extra Ativan. Shhh … let's let 'im sleep it off …"

Mmmm … smells like coffee cake … 

" … get some coffee. There's cake in the oven."

Thought I smelled coffee! 

"Jimmy's something, isn't he? So you heard about the poker game?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world … gonna send you back to work broke …"

My dream world dissolved gradually. The voices were soft. A little conspiratorial.

The field of daisies was the last to fade, and the smell of small white flowers became the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee and fresh baked coffee cake. I opened my eyes to hazy images of Greg's living room and the cracks across the ceiling. I reached up and rubbed my eyes, then threw back the blanket.

How long had I been asleep? Were those smells real? Yeah … they were. So had been those background voices. Cuddy was here. I looked around … searching for Greg and the wheelchair. I pushed up on the edge of the couch and squirmed upright.

What? 

I got to my feet, rubbed my eyes and wandered into the kitchen. They were there, both of them. Greg was in one of the kitchen chairs, cane across his lap, the IV standing like a sentinel at his side. But he was in good spirits … and _no wheelchair!_

"What'd I miss?" I asked.

They both looked up and regarded my disheveled state. Cuddy smiled. Greg turned in the chair and glowered at me with his trademark snark. "Just the usual," he grumbled. "Cuddy was trying to get into my pants again!"

I groaned and pulled out a chair to sit beside him. "And I haven't even had my first cup of coffee yet!" I moaned with just-waking-up fogginess and lowered my face into my hands.

They were entirely too happy about something. I hazarded a peek in Cuddy's direction when I heard her counter stool scrape back.

She was pouring me a cup of coffee. Oh … good morning sunshine!

Oooo0oooO

209


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

"The Mystery of the Spilled Coffee"

I sat at the table listening to them banter back and forth, sipping at my coffee and trying to lift myself out of my Ativan fog.

The two of them reminded me of those very old reruns of the "George Burns and Gracie Allen Show" my parents used to watch when my brothers and I were little kids. See-sawing back and forth like a couple of sixth graders at recess: both talk, neither listen, neither give a damn! My head felt like a fifty-five gallon drum; empty and echoing like wind through a canyon.

_SHUT! UP! ALREADY! _

I lifted my head from between my hands and growled at them as though I were their father. "I love your 'George and Gracie' routine, guys, but … uh … anybody get the morning labs? Sat reading? Temp?"

Greg turned in the chair and scowled at me, all long-suffering and overly exaggerated patience. "Don't you _ever_ go off duty? I'm fine! I even cooked breakfast."

I looked down at my perfect slice of coffee cake and snickered. "Yeah … you and Sara Lee must've slaved away all morning."

"I'm _hurt!"_ He pouted. He screwed up his features until he closely resembled Uncle Remus. He snatched away my piece of coffee cake and took a huge bite out of it. "You don't deserve this little slice of heaven!" He smacked his lips in delight … or whatever those special effects were supposed to represent.

"Appetite's back," I observed sagely. Cuddy shook her lead, half laughing, and reached across to cuff the back of Greg's head affectionately. She then sliced off a fresh hunk of cake and laid it in front of me. Our middle-aged child turned with arched brows and made a face at her.

We were more appreciative of his antics this morning, however, than he would probably ever know. Neither of us could remember the last time he'd stolen food from my plate … and this was a milestone.

Cuddy sat down her empty coffee mug and rose from the table. She looked a little dazed, and I figured she was just about "Housed out". She went for her jacket and elbowed into it quickly. "I'll draw the blood and drop it off on my way in. I'll get a little extra. Now that your fever's down, we should get a repeat CBC."

He watched closely as Cuddy pulled the samples, then grunted sarcastically behind her turned back: "You're a vampire!"

She didn't answer, just grabbed her handbag, tucked the samples inside, winked at me over his head and left quietly. Yep … she needed to "de-House" all right!

He and I moved into the living room with our coffee. He sat on the couch while I did the morning meds and got a quick assessment. Surprisingly, I was satisfied with the results. "No fever," I told him, "and you're maintaining a normal 02 sat on room air. Your lungs are even beginning to sound functional again."

"That mean we can dispense with those nasty little aerosols?"

"I said _beginning_ to sound good. You're still pretty junky."

"That's a _'no', _then?"

"Yes. Unh … no. I mean yes … that's a no. A couple more days of aerosols won't kill you." I pretended not to see him sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. I ignored him completely and walked out to the kitchen to do his charting, and after that, begin a bit of cleanup.

It didn't take long out there, but when I picked up his chart from the counter, I was surprised to see a small coffee stain on it. I walked over to the couch and sat down beside him, looking into his face with an inquiring expression. I didn't say anything, but it wasn't that he didn't notice. You can't ignore a billboard at the side of the road just because you're not looking directly at it.

Finally, he couldn't stand the implied accusation any longer, and just as I'd known he would, he turned his gaze dead onto mine. "What? You look like you just ate something nasty. Wasn't my coffee cake … I know that." He grinned, but all I saw were two rows of perfect teeth. "Spill, Jimmy! What's buggin' you?"

I took a deep breath. "Speaking of spills … seems to be a coffee stain on one of these files."

"You're a little clumsy, huh? Not like it's an official chart or anything, anyway."

"I didn't spill any coffee. Not this morning. This is fresh."

"So Cuddy's a little clumsy."

"Cuddy takes cream in her coffee. And she cleans up after herself. Also, she has her own copy of this particular file."

His expression tightened. "A doctor, a chef, and a detective … Jimmy, you're a man of many talents."

I kept quiet for a moment. Didn't let him reading anything on my face. It was difficult. Finally, I looked directly into his eyes. "I'm sorry, House. I'm really sorry. Can … will you forgive me?"

Instinctively, I think, he realized it wasn't the time to joke around. "There's nothing to forgive," he told me firmly.

"But I saw you that night … on the floor of your office. And I walked away." I chewed at my lower lip, not sure what to say next. He studied me quietly, and finally it was I who could not stand the silence. I cleared my throat uneasily and went on. "I shouldn't ask you to excuse what I did, though, when I can't condone it myself." I was feeling very subdued, and it was getting difficult to meet those deep, penetrating eyes. So I looked away in haste. "I know I told you that you could listen to the session … that I wasn't ashamed of anything I said … and it's true. Sort of. But I thought we'd listen to it together … and I'd have the chance to talk to you about it first. I'm still ashamed of what I did … that night …"

"You did the right thing."

There it was. He absolved me, and his voice was deep and rumbling and quiet and sincere, and I knew I didn't deserve it. He continued. "What would have happened if you'd come in?"

I hadn't thought about that before. But I thought about it then. Finally I could bring myself to hazard the only possible answer. "You'd have yelled at me to get out … and insulted me. And I would have ignored you."

He smiled. "Preferable to passing a tear-soaked tissue back and forth … which would have been our only other option." He kept looking at me, waiting for me to meet his gaze. "You did the right thing!" We were sitting close together on the couch, and our heads were both down, as though we'd found something of intense interest on the floor at our feet. I looked up slowly, sort-of forcing him to do the same. And our eyes met. He nodded, giving me permission to let go some of the guilt.

"And anyway," he said with a tense ring of cheer in his voice, "this transcript is great, really. Now I have an actual doctor's note with permission to give you a hard time. Your shrink even approved it … how cool is that??"

"What are you talking about?"

He leaned over and lifted the chart from my lap. He rifled through the transcript of the voice file, looking for something. Then, in a badly overblown imitation of Sigmund Freud, he read in an eccentric voice: "He's literally programmed to fight you!"

I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, listening to him as he jabbered on happily: "That's like a blank check to star in my own episode of 'Boys Behaving Badly'. Ya know, _The Incredible Shrinking Dick_ might be an okay fella after all." He grinned maniacally, and I got the glare to end all glares.

I took a deep breath and did my damndest not to smile at the idiocy. "Two things: First, call him the 'incredible shrinking dick' tomorrow night, and I'll put the parental-control lock on your porn channels … all of 'em! Got me?"

"You're no fun!" He grumped. I crossed my arms and continued to wait. He relented. "Oh fine! Got it … no nicknames. And the second thing?"

"I think it's only fair to warn you … you may be 'programmed to fight me' … but I've just programmed myself to fight back!" I looked at him smugly, and he was quiet for a few moments.

"A damned fine job you're doing, too!" He finally said. His voice was low, and more than a little serious. Lucky for me!" He added, even more quietly. "One more thing about this …"

I waited for the punch line.

He turned the transcript quickly to the final page. "Your last line here? You know … the mushy poetic one?"

He waited a moment, watching me squirm.

"History doesn't always repeat itself, Jimmy. You remember what you said … and you believe it. Take it to the bank, Bro …"

He closed the chart slowly. With dignity and finality. He handed it back to me, and when he let go, his fingers brushed lightly across mine.

"Hey! I ate all my breakfast … and yours too. That means I get a Twinkie for dessert."

He cocked his head and grinned that dumb grin of one-upmanship.

Not to be outdone, I grinned right back at him.

I left the file on the coffee table and went to the kitchen for the package of Twinkies …

Oooo0oooO


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

"From Behind These Walls of Stone …"

We were sitting on the couch, he and I, not paying too much attention to each other. Something uninteresting was on TV, neither of us watching. We were shooting the breeze off and on, and making some heavy noise about how great it would be when he was well enough for us to sit there together with our feet propped on the coffee table watching a game or a movie, and guzzling beer and chomping on Chinese … or a deep-dish pizza with "everything."

I don't know what it was I said, but he looked over at me with a contemplative look on his face, suddenly quiet, and then mumbled something about going back to the bedroom to read an article he'd been meaning to check out in a back issue of JAMA.

Had I said something to upset him?

I nodded acquiescence and watched him in silence as he rose a little stiffly and gimped his way down the hallway to his bedroom. I heard the door click shut a little after that, and then nothing. I guessed that the leg wasn't going into spasm, and he wasn't really running away from anything, so I let him alone and didn't question his motives. But I didn't buy for a second that he was going back there to read some obscure article in a medical journal!

Maybe he needed time to think; time to gather his resources; time to take a personal inventory and figure out some things on his own. Maybe he had the right idea, and I should do something like that myself.

Maybe.

After an hour or so, I went back to check him and give him his meds. He was sprawled there, languishing against the pillows with his legs crossed at the ankles, still with that contemplative look. His hands were laced behind his head, and he turned slowly to observe my presence in his room with complete indifference. His sudden departure from the living room earlier ragged at me. I wondered what was going on, but refrained from asking the question he must have expected.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he said, and I left it at that. I pulled his door shut until it latched, and then went back to my perch on the couch.

I sat there awhile, looking blankly at the TV that was still on, but muted. There was an old "Law and Order" playing by then, and I had to smile to myself. It was one of those episodes that starred Jerry Orbach, and I thought fondly of Dick Dickinson before I flicked it off.

I wasn't tired. Only restless. After awhile I got up again and went into the kitchen. There was a jug of milk in the fridge, and after looking around for something to munch on and finding nothing that seemed tempting, poured myself a tall glass of cold milk and sat down at the table with it … and House's chart.

After awhile I got lost inside myself a little, and my surroundings faded gradually as I became absorbed in what I was reading. The strange fugue state was tempered with flashbacks of the odd relationship I shared with this man, and my ongoing uncertainty of my constantly changing role in it.

As time passed, I reread the voice file of that first session with Dick Dickinson, once, twice, three times consecutively, trying to put it into Greg's perspective, as though reading it with his eyes. Not easy. But if I were Gregory House, and I was reading an account of two people having a conversation about my physical and mental health, or lack thereof, and I was not even present to offer input or clarification … how would _I_ feel about it? There were some things in there that had to have hurt him, angered him, made him wonder if we did indeed have his best interests at heart.

When we had talked about the file later, Greg had been quick to forgive. Even though his best … and only … friend had spilled his guts about some very personal things to a virtual stranger, he had not called me on it. Would he think that Dick and I had discussed the possibility that his pain was not real … just a big game he was playing on us all? Would he believe that I'd allowed him to suffer for months … needlessly … deliberately … while I walked around smug and complacent, believing I was helping him?

My thoughts wandered back for the hundredth time to that night in House's office … that painful scene I knew I could never purge from my soul. Again I pictured the scenario that kept haunting me like the waking dream of a combat veteran who replays over and over in his mind, the comrade-in-arms whose body is blown into a thousand pieces by a landmine, and the resulting rain of blood that, for the rest of his life, never quite washes off his skin:

_I'd been working late, finishing up some overdue paperwork. Julie had been expecting me home hours before, and I knew I was probably in trouble. I turned out the lights and locked up my office. I had my topcoat over my arm, and my briefcase hanging off my shoulder, and as I turned toward the elevator, I had to pass Greg's office. The vertical blinds across his front wall were pulled together, but one of them had caught on the edge of another, and the resulting gap sent a dim shaft of light across the corridor in front of me._

_My eye followed the natural path of the light, and what I saw inside that office turned my blood to ice in my veins. _

_House and I had never had what you might call a "good old boy" relationship. We were never touchy-feely, as the expression goes, and usually took great pains to avoid any invasion of one another's personal space. His normal aversion to anything faintly resembling compassion, pity, sympathy, or even what he called "hovering" and my "mother-henning", kept me pretty much at arms' length where that stuff was concerned. He made no bones about me keeping my hands to myself, especially when he was having a bad day in the pain department. I'd always respected that. He was a hard-ass, especially since his infarction, and I respected that too. _

_Taking those things into consideration, I still believe that that was the reason I held my ground that night, instead of going immediately to his side … _

_I hadn't known House was still in his office. I believe now that he was there only because he had not the strength, and was in too much pain to have done otherwise. Ordinarily, he was out of there and on his way home on the dot of 4:30 p.m., and before that, if he could get away with it. _

_But this time was different in the fact that he was not only in his office at nine o'clock at night, but instead of sitting in his chair, lost in computer readouts or scribbling notes on his desk pad, he was on the floor. His back was against the desk chair and his left elbow rested at the edge of the seat, his hand clenched into a fist. His left leg was drawn up nearly to his chest, and the hurt one laid stretched out in front of him like a fallen log. He was rocking the whole chair back and forth, bent low, clutching his damaged thigh in the steel grip of his right hand, the corners of his mouth pulled back in a strained grimace. _

_His suit jacket and backpack were thrown aside on the floor near him, as though dropped suddenly and forgotten. His cane was on the floor also, more than an arm's length away. He must have lost it when he went down. His jeans were bunched around his lower legs. He'd probably scraped himself around from where he'd fallen in order to pull himself into a sitting position with the aid of the chair. _

_His body moved in this slow, hypnotic rhythm, and his face moved into and out of the shaft of light that glowed dimly from the lamp on his desk. _

_I could see the agony etched there in the stark glint of the deep-set blue eyes that were much too bright to pass for anything near normal for him. Immediately after that, I saw the sheen on his cheeks, and the wetness building while he sat there, and the tears running down … _

_And I stood there and watched with grim fascination. Frozen in time. The image that etched itself into my brain was like a photograph of a disaster that had happened right in front of me while I was powerless to do anything except stare like someone drawn to the scene of a fire or a fatal accident. Happy that the blood being shed wasn't my own, but powerless to turn away … _

_And after a time, I did walk away from him. Tight-fisted. Tight-lipped. Giving him his privacy. Letting him alone in an awkward moment. Saving myself from his bitter words about not minding my own business. Saving him the embarrassment of knowing there had been a witness to his pain … _

_…a witness who would live with his failure as a friend for, probably, the rest of his life … _

I could feel my flimsy barn-board walls going back up, blocking off my returning guilt with self-righteousness and analytic mumbo jumbo. Justification. Rationalization. Remorse. Resentment. Dissect everything until it paralyzes you!

Analysis paralysis!

Was this what was happening with Greg also? Was he back in his bedroom feeling the same way I was feeling … self-righteous and justified? Was he back there steeped in his own dark thoughts as I was steeped in mine? Rebuilding walls also? Was he rearming his battlements and fortifying his defenses against further hurt?

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

I guessed it was just built into some of us. Nagging, haggling, scratching just below the surface of our defenses. Nothing we did was ever good enough. No good deed ever went unpunished. Must have been my Jewish heritage. But that was crap, and I knew it.

I glanced at my watch.

_Good Lord! 4:30 p.m. _

I'd lost track of time, lost track of the words on the chart in front of me, and in the word file. Even the glass of milk still at my elbow, was too tepid to drink. I needed to put it back in the fridge before it turned into something smelly. And I needed to go back to Greg's room to check on him.

I heard his grunt of pain even before I got to the closed bedroom door. I didn't pause to knock, but barged in quickly.

Both hands were gripping his leg when I entered. He glanced up defiantly, and I think by sheer force of will, he dropped his hands onto the surface of the mattress. He composed his face to blandness and looked up at me with a glint of threatened homicide in his eyes.

I wasn't fooled. We'd known each other far too well, for far too long.

"Why didn't you call me?"

He insisted on perpetuating the lie. "Nothing I can't handle. Almost over anyway."

I walked over and reached for his pulse. He was ready to pull away, but at the last moment, didn't. I don't know what made him stay his hand. "No," I said, "it _isn't! _Not unless you just had a cardiac transplant … and they used a hummingbird's heart!"

"I _said_ … I'll handle it!"

I could see him starting to sweat, and I interpreted his actions as a refusal to appear needy as he pushed my hands away from the edge of the blanket.

"What's going on, House? What are we doing, still playing games? I want to check you. Is that suddenly a problem?"

"If I need a doctor, I'll let you know!" His voice was taking on a sharp edge of desperation.

I decided if he wanted to continue playing games, I could easily accommodate. "Okay … fine! I need you in the living room. I need to change the dressing on the PICC line. The light's better out there, and I want to get a good look at the site."

I could see him quickly considering going on with the fakery, but I had called his bluff and the jig was up. I had won without a struggle. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He was hurting. Walking, even that short distance, would be impossible. "All right! So yeah … it's building up. Fast! It started about five minutes ago."

We both knew that any chance of aborting the spasm had long passed. It had gotten a firm footing, and we'd have to let the thing play out all the way.

"No meds!" He gasped. His hands returned quickly to the rock-hard muscle.

"No meds!" I repeated after him, and pulled the blanket away from his leg. I sat down on the bed at his side and moved in close, pushing his hands out of my way and began to massage the tightness that he'd tried to deny was even there. I wondered if there was anything I could say to him that would take his mind off the intense pain I knew was continuing to build.

"There's something you need to know about the night I saw you in your office." I didn't look anywhere but at the expanse of the long, heavily muscled leg I was trying to palpitate into obedience. "I admire what you tried to do … what you did. You kept trying, and you wouldn't let it beat you down. You were in agony, but you kept going. I don't think I've ever known anyone with the strength you have, and I don't think I ever will again." I looked up and met his eyes, still uncertain what I was seeing there. He was gasping with pain, but he could not look away. His total shock at my words was palpable.

I continued, now that I had his attention. "That's why I know without a doubt that whatever turns out to be wrong here, you're not going to let it get you. I have to thank you, House … it's been a privilege to actually be allowed to be part of that kind of courage."

It was quiet for a few more minutes, as I focused completely on the knotted thigh beneath my hands. By that time, even my arms were aching, cramping and knotting almost as badly as his leg, from the hard work of taming the tempest in his muscles. I concentrated fiercely, not letting him see, although I could feel his eyes boring holes in the side of my head.

He must have seen me wince with the buildup of the pain in my hands, along with the decline of his own in the leg. He must have understood that I really was there in his own best interests, no matter how strong the case he was rebuilding against me. He must have decided in that moment that the walls inside his mind weren't worth the hassle, and that another war between us had the potential to take down the bond of our friendship. And nothing in the world would be worth that!

He snorted briefly, and I detected a small grunt of laughter.

_Thank God!_

"Yeah … well … as long as we're playing 'True Confessions' here … I've got one of my own. I'm grateful you left me there that night. It doesn't matter why you left. You left me with my privacy. It's something about you I can always count on: a man's dignity. No small thing, that. Whatever you thought your reasons were, it doesn't matter. We both know why you _really _left … and I'll deny I ever said this … but I don't know what I'd do without you … always looking out for me even when you think you're not."

_Damn you, House! Now you've even made my guilt seem altruistic! But … you really do get it, don't you? _

Gradually I felt his thigh muscles relax completely beneath my fingers, and I could relax also, and allow the tendons and ligaments in my arms and wrists return to normal. I heard him sigh with relief and I leaned back to withdraw my touch from the skin of his leg. I was surprised when they were pressed together by the warmth of Greg's own hands, large and comforting, over my own. I looked up, questioning.

"The heat," he said gently, "it feels good." He didn't move his clasp from around mine for long minutes, letting some of his body heat seep refreshingly into my own tired, cramped fingers.

"Yes," I told him. "It does."

After that, my recollection is vague, and I shall not speak of it here …

Oooo0oooO


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

"Entertaining the 'Child' With the Five O'Clock Shadow"

I woke up Friday morning with my teeth on edge for some reason. I untangled myself from the pillow cocoon and padded around in the kitchen preparing a few things in preparation for breakfast, and double-checking the list of goodies we would need for the poker game that night.

Oh man! The poker game! That explained my unease, and the unexplainable hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach because there was no way to predict what might come out of House's mouth tonight after Dick arrived …

I put the kettle on the back burner turned on "low" and went into the bathroom. Quickly I showered and shaved and made fast work of the morning ritual. Dressed myself in jeans and a decent shirt and my old moccasins, sans socks, and went back to the kitchen.

I was a little worried about Greg's condition. I had a feeling that sometime today his leg would go into another spasm … and this time it would be a really bad one. He was only now beginning to show positive signs of recovery from the bout with pneumonia, and his general response was going very well. Like the pessimist that I am, I was foreseeing grim happenings on the horizon, and a premonition of another severe attack that might steal the strength House had fought so hard to attain.

I had seen my theory about the psychosomatic pain confirmed; things that caused him to feel insecure or unsettled did, indeed, bring on the spasms … and what could make him any more disquieted than knowing he'll be going toe-to-toe with a wily and very perceptive clinical psychologist that night?

I went back into the kitchen to get the coffee on, and as I puttered around, my worry about Dick's impending visit grew. Finally, I decided to postpone the game for about a week to give Greg more time to adjust to the idea of the new diagnosis. I poured the water into the press and waited for it to steep. I got the pancake mix out of the cupboard and read the directions on the box. I found a can of minced macadamia nuts and got them ready, figuring he would ask. I checked the egg supply and the milk supply and the large carton of orange juice on the top shelf of the fridge. The glass of milk I ended up not drinking yesterday, still stood right where I'd placed it. Maybe later today …

I poured my coffee and decided to call Dickinson's office at once, and leave a message on his voice mail.

Before I could place the call, I heard the thump-step cadence of the cane and its owner as he walked up behind me. I pressed "end" and stuck the thing in my pocket. He was walking confidently, quite adept with the cane and IV-pole combination for walking aids, and there was a cat-like smile on his face. I turned and looked at him, and his appearance made me chuckle aloud, remembering Cuddy's allusion one time to his "living-under-a-bridge" look. His tee shirt was wrinkled and twisted on his body, the old scrubs equally twisted, making him look as though he were trying to walk sideways. His feet were bare. His hair stood up all over his head like porcupine quills, and his thickening beard made him look a little like a street beggar. All he needed was the tin cup. He saw me laughing at the look of him, and stopped to look down at himself. I think he understood immediately what I meant, but he was in too good a mood to crab at me about it.

"Lookin' forward to the poker game tonight," he said happily. "Not often I get to psych out a psychologist!"

I grabbed another mug and poured him a coffee, wondering if he was referring to the poker game, or to the diagnosis of psychosomatic illness. "Yeah," I said, "Well … about the game … I was thinking about putting it off for a couple more days to give you a chance to really get over the pneumonia."

He wasn't having any. "Uh uh! I'm ready. Don't need healthy lungs to play poker! Just luck and brain cells …"

_And balls the size of a moose … _I didn't say.

"… what I lack in the luck department, I more than make up for in brains," he continued enthusiastically. "Matter of fact, got so many brains, I might be able to loan you a few extra cells tonight. Wouldn't want ya to think I never share the wealth!" He smirked and walked over to the table and sat down.

I brought him his mug of coffee. I decided reluctantly to abandon my plans to postpone the game, and I eyed him appraisingly. His high spirits seemed to be for real, and I thought it might do him some good to have a little distraction and do something not entirely focused on his status as a "patient".

"I'll make you a deal …" I said. "If you eat a good breakfast and lunch, I'll let you ditch the pump for the evening. If you take a nap this afternoon, I'll even throw in staying up past your bedtime. 'Course, that'll depend on how bad you're beating me …" I kept a grin on my face as I spoke, but I still felt somehow uneasy.

"Deal!" He said. "But only if you keep the 'Doctor stuff' to a minimum. Not easy to keep my poker face with a thermometer sticking out of my mouth! Kinda ruins the look I'm goin' for."

I smiled again and took the bait on purpose. "What would that be?"

"Tough guy. Intimidating. Kinda crazy. Jack Nicholson in 'Cuckoo's Nest'."

"Ahhh … type casting. Got it."

"Hummph!" He took a slug from his coffee and smacked his lips. "So what's for breakfast? And if I have to eat _all _of it, it'd better not be past-pigs, future-chickens, or the secretions of contented bovines."

"House, if you don't want bacon and eggs, just say so. If you don't want milk, then pour it down the sink when you think I'm not looking … the way you usually do."

"It's just that it's so … yesterday … and the day before … and …"

"Hold on!" I interrupted the whining litany. "As I recall, _you_ made what passed for breakfast yesterday, and no nutrition involved. No actually work involved either."

"Okay! It's _so_ the day _before _yesterday then. And the day …"

I sighed loud enough to shut him up. "Macadamia pancakes it is!"

He ate pancakes like a starving waif. So did I!

An hour later he was on the couch, idly wrapping his IV tube around his fingers. I heard the two words that made my eyes roll skyward.

"I'm bored." He turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

Insert proper "danger" music here … 

"Why don't you play your new video game? Brush up on your poker skills … you know … four of a kind … two pairs … straight flush … full house …"

"Video game … already beat level fifty-eight … saw the naked girls. The thrill is gone. I already have an unfair advantage over the rest of you unfortunates in tonight's game, just by virtue of being me. I'm just that good!" He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me. He then leaned his head back and addressed the crack in the ceiling: "I'm. Bored!"

"Someday I'm going to figure out how it is that make those two little words sound like such a big threat. In the meantime … in the interests of world peace and domestic tranquility, I guess it's time to bring out the big guns!" I went to the coat closet and came back with a flat package. I handed it across to him. "Here! This should keep you busy for … oh … about a hundred and seventy-four minutes. Not that I know exactly …"

"SpongeBob SquarePants Absorbing Favorites!" House grin threatened at that minute to take over his face. "Wilson, you've been holding out on me! How long hv e you had this?"

"Got it just after the last time you uttered those dreaded words, and I came home to find out you'd dismantled the microwave to find out why the food gets hot, but the plate stays cold!"

"Hey! Check out this bonus feature! 'Ripped Pants Karaoke' … this is just too awesome. Can ya bring me that old scrub brush … gotta have my microphone."

I felt so … underwhelmed!

I went through the rest of the day listening to the soundtrack of sweet SpongeBob and Patrick and Gary the meowing snail. Every time that part came around, I had to squelch the impulse to strangle Gary … or maybe House … or both … but that might involve jail time. I reminded myself that it was better than having to rescue my blow dryer from the freezer, where he _said_ he'd left it … plugged in and turned on … to defrost a TV dinner in a hurry …

I stayed in the kitchen. I drank the glass of milk I had abandoned yesterday. I chewed on pulverized macadamia nuts. I found things to do in preparation for the coming evening, holding my hands over my ears and gritting my teeth against his seventeenth rendition of "I Ripped My Pants" … but who was counting?

I took my fourth ibuprofen of the day … but who was counting?

I gazed longingly at the little bottle of Ativan and fixed a smile on my face.

He never did take the damned nap I'd suggested earlier, and it was entirely my own fault!

I was ready to go in there and fling the DVD player … or House … or both … out the window!

Give me strength! 

Little did I know what he was about to get into next …

Oooo0ooooO

223


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

"Playin' With Sticks Does Not a Fire Make"

By the time Lisa Cuddy got to House's place after work that Friday, she was able to let herself in using her own key, which Greg had given her the day before. He'd been feeling pretty good with his bellyful of macadamia pancakes, and was enjoying a few odd moments of benevolence. He went to his bureau in the bedroom, rummaged around and came up with the extra key. He'd pressed it into her hand while she nearly keeled over in astonishment, telling her in an offhand manner that he wanted to thank her in some tangible way for everything she had done for him.

I kind of expected her to say something like: "Who are you, and what did you do with Dr. House?"

Lisa wasn't the only one to nearly die of surprise. I was quite willing to join her, and might have made some sentimental remark, had not Greg beseeched me with those puppy dog eyes in a silent plea not to make a Broadway Production of it.

So, on Friday, Cuddy was surprised again when she came in to find her eccentric patient lying quietly on the couch, intently perusing a medical journal. He had showered. His scruff was trimmed. He had shaved and dressed himself in jeans, running shoes and a decent shirt. I guess she expected to see him perched somewhere on top of one of the bookcases, painting the ceiling. When he simply glanced up at her grand entrance, he nodded seriously and politely and returned to his article. I think it was then that the alarms started going off in her head.

"What'd you do?" She asked him suspiciously.

He looked up quickly and caught my eye where I stood sentinel in the kitchen doorway. He glanced back at Cuddy and sighed in resignation. "How was I s'posed to know when _he_ said 'take a nap', I was supposed to go to sleep? He should have been more exact."

Cuddy lowered herself onto a chair with a quick glance in my direction, and breathed deeply a couple of times. She smiled sweetly at House, and then asked him: "So … how did _you_ translate it?"

"The only logical way, of course," he replied, and butter would not have melted in his mouth. "I figured he meant I was just supposed to entertain myself quietly for awhile. So I did. If I knew my post on the 'Life With Your Chihuahua' Board could be traced back to his laptop, I wouldn't've … uh … proposed the idea that offing dear little Toto would be a cool alternative. Guess they thought I was getting' ready to take me … and the dog out too."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open. "You threatened suicide on a public forum? On the Internet? Posing as James Wilson, M. D.?"

I thought her face would crack.

I watched Greg's dimples begin to deepen as he tried to suppress a grin. "Y'know, I think those weirdos were more upset about the _dog_ biting the big one than me! But Wilson was really good when the cops showed up … convinced them that some idiot got unauthorized access to his laptop."

"Yeah …" Cuddy was shaking her head. "Sometimes the truth can be a hard sell. And how did Wilson make the nice officers go away?"

"Not real sure about that. Took awhile to get rid of 'em. It involved a hell of a lot of pointing over here at me … some whispering … and laughing."

"And then?" Her aura of patience was becoming a bit forced.

"Oh … they tore up their little Baker Act forms with his name all over 'em … and they told Wilson he needed to do a better job of supervising his kid … and they laughed some more. Except Wilson! If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was crying. Then they left."

"And Wilson? After they tore up the commitment papers, and you made Daddy cry, and the big, bad men went away, what did he do next?" Cuddy was probably picturing him curled up under the bed muttering gibberish, playing with tiny sharp objects … and whimpering!

"He got a little pissy with me. Can you believe that? He pointed to the couch and said 'COUCH! NOW! DON'T MOVE!' He's been hiding in the kitchen ever since. Figured I'd better do as he says, or he'd off the stinkin' pup … or something."

Cuddy looked across at me and rolled her eyes. She looked as though she'd like to smack the grin off his face. She stood and pointed a stern finger under his nose. "Don't. Move!"

I was back in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for a platter when she came out through the door. I didn't turn around. "House … I'm a doctor and I know right where the jugular is. You won't suffer. Much! If you don't get back on that couch right now, I'll arrange it so you'll never go near a computer again!"

"Relax, it's me," Cuddy said as she walked up behind me. "Hard day?" There was amused teasing in her voice.

"You don't know the half of it. I should have let them drag me away to a padded room, and make _that _…" I pointed to Greg in the other room … "a ward of the state!"

I offered her a tired smile. "Only bright thing is … I could have sworn he would have had leg trauma after leg trauma all day. But he hasn't had a twinge. His appetite's good, and no fever. Looks like he might actually be improving … if I don't kill 'im first!"

She smiled and stole a carrot off the plate I was working on. "Yeah … death might mess with the improvement curve a little, not that I'd blame you. Need any help getting ready for the game? What time is Dr. Dickinson supposed to get here?"

I handed her two bags of chips and a couple of large bowls from the cabinet. "Dump these in the bowls, will you? Dick should be here anytime now."

Cuddy took over while I went in to make certain the poker table was set up, the cards and chips were out, and everything was ready. I ignored House's apologetic looks, but warned him on no uncertain terms: "You'd do well to remember some things. You're still trapped here with me for at least a couple more weeks. GameBoys and DVDs and laptops can be made to disappear very easily."

I fixed him with my best glare. "And remotes fit very easily into the garbage disposal. They make a really cool sound as they die. You taught me that one. At my house! With my remote."

"Didja know the AMA is recommending federal regulation of the salt in processed foods?" He came back at me indignantly, eyes still fixed on the journal in his lap. "How's that for Big Brother?"

"House …" And my next threat was cut off by a knock at the door.

I opened it. "Hi, Dick. Glad you could make it." I called Cuddy out of the kitchen and introduced them. "Dick, this is Lisa Cuddy." Dick offered her his left hand, and they gripped each other's fingers warmly. They seemed to like each other right away.

I glanced over to the couch, where an exaggerated round of coughs and throat clearing increased steadily in volume. "And _that_ … " I said dryly, "would be House!"

My sarcastic friend-cum-patient grinned widely, and I held my breath. "Well, if it isn't the Incred …"

"Now where did I write down that top secret cable code?" I wondered loudly.

"Good evening, Dr. Dickinson. Nice to meet you. Forgive me for not getting up, but Daddy grounded me to the couch until further notice. No sense of humor, I'm afraid." His formality was a direct jab at me as he smiled charmingly at Dickinson.

I ignored the challenge. "Okay, House … restriction's lifted for now. You can move over to the table."

We watched him grab his cane and stand up with energy and enthusiasm. "C'mon everyone … Wilson's been begging me for months to take his money off his hands, and I plan to oblige him tonight."

"At least when I lose it, I know it's gone," I retorted. "That would be different from when I _loan_ it to you, and I'm forced to suffer under the delusion that I might someday see it again." I snarked back at him with equal enthusiasm.

Dick looked at both of us a little funny. Lisa shrugged.

"Delusion? That would be your area of expertise, wouldn't it Dick?" House asked heartily … and I noticed that his pronunciation of "Dick" was not without a little bit of unusual connotation. "Might wanna have a little chat with Jimmy about those delusions of his. They can get really tiresome."

Cuddy and I rolled our eyes. Dick and Greg smiled pleasantly at each other as we all moved to the table. It was gonna be a _night!_

For the first hour, things went very smoothly. House was charming, funny and manipulative, just as I'd expected him to be. Dick seemed taken with his wit and amused by his jokes.

House himself, was coming off incredibly well as the very picture of mental health. He was, by turns, self-deprecating and confident, serious and light-hearted, pensive and outspoken … and all at the appropriate times. Worse, Dick seemed to be buying into all of it. But he was saying very little, listening very closely, and watching every move.

When the sniping and laughter began to take a toll on House's lungs, and his breathing became shallow and rapid, Cuddy called a break for an aerosol treatment. House agreed immediately and our eyes widened. Dick remained contemplative, sitting quietly with his cards in his left hand, studying only the area in front of him, but I got the distinct impression that his nerve endings were on red alert, assessing everything he heard and sensed, and evaluating each moment.

When he laid his cards face down on the table to reach into his pocket and remove a small pill vial, we all saw House's eyes widen as Dick thumbed off the cap and dry-swallowed a Vicodin right there in front of us all. House, of course, had observed Dick's withered hand, but had said nothing. Things grew quiet for a moment.

House sat still, drawing on the nebulizer, watching Dick, who pretended not to notice. Cuddy and I went to the kitchen to ready the aerosols. "There's too much bluffing going on in this game," I told her quietly, "and none of it has to do with the card game. Time for Plan B."

Shortly after Greg finished his treatment and the game resumed, I mentioned that I was hungry and returned to the kitchen to "place a call to the deli to check on our order." I returned to the living room and made the announcement: "Deli's packed. Friday rush. Our order won't get here for at least another hour." I turned to Cuddy. "Let's just go out and buy what we want. We can make it up here."

She caught the clue. "Coming." She grabbed her purse and we were out the door with tiny apologies that both men recognized … hollow as a hot air balloon.

We slammed the door behind us.

Lisa and I hurried out to her car for the groceries she'd picked up on the way to Greg's, all a part of the contrived scheme to leave them alone together. We slammed the outer door on our way out, but we sneaked around like cat burglars when we brought everything inside. We tiptoed back to Greg's front door and took turns "listening at the keyhole."

House was narrating a long, loud litany of complaints about our departure being a huge ruse to get the two of them alone and trapped together in the same room. We had to admit he'd hit that one right on the nose.

Dick Dickinson's deep, quiet voice cut him off very effectively by refusing to speak in a loud or abrasive manner, and we figured House had to listen very closely in order to hear him. He wasn't the only one. We both had to bend low and press our ears to the door …

Dick was saying, "You know he's gone to very great lengths to help you."

There was a pause. Then: "Yeah, and I appreciate most of what he's done. What they've _both_ done. All this stuff though, is completely unnecessary, as we both know."

Dick spoke again. There was a tone of light concern in his voice. "You seem a little tired, Dr. House. Would you like to move to the couch awhile?"

"What is it with you shrinks and couches, anyway? No thanks. I'm fine right here."

We heard the cards being shuffled loudly, and we knew it couldn't be Dick. House was using every stalling tactic in the book.

"I imagine that after all the trouble they've gone to in order to leave us alone, it would be a disservice were we not to discuss at least a little of the concerns of your diagnosis."

There was resentment in House's voice when he answered. "Yeah … well … _James_ will just have to get over it. It's not my diagnosis anyway. As I recall, it's yours."

"Nope, not mine. The doctors who analyzed your test results were the ones who reached that conclusion. I simply concurred."

"Well, I read the transcript of the voice file, and it was you who planted the idea in Wilson's head." Greg's voice was starting to reveal a hint of tightly curtailed anger. I looked at Lisa, but she held a finger to her lips, and we knelt a little closer in order to hear more of the conversation.

Dick's concern seemed to be getting more stringent. "Leg bothering you, Doctor?"

"No!"

"It's okay, Dr. House. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Can I do anything to help?"

"You can leave me the-hell alone." The words are sharper, louder.

Things were beginning to happen. Dick was probably seeing the phenomenon of House's leg problem for himself. Cuddy and I hunched together in the hallway, hoping things would not come to blows. Neither of them could afford it.

After that, it got very quiet. Whatever had happened was probably over. Cuddy sneaked back to the outside door and slammed it dramatically. We retrieved the groceries from the floor of the entryway and proceeded loudly to Greg's front door.

When we walked in, his teeth were clenched and Dick was looking at him closely, like a bug under glass. House was pissed.

"Wanna help?" he hissed between his teeth as we walked inside with our load of grocery bags. "Keep your mouth shut!" He wrapped both hands as tightly as he could around his thigh, and looked up at us and smiled. "Hope you two had time for a steamy make-out session!" He said brightly. But it fell flat.

We made no comment, but continued to the kitchen with the food. This was still Dick's show. This was part of what he'd come here in hopes of witnessing.

I could hear Dick's stage whisper float into the kitchen as I stood with my back to the door. "At least let me tell them you're in pain. Please."

And the strident answer: "No!"

I peered over my shoulder and saw blood pop out on Greg's lip where he'd bitten through it, and blood on his fingertips where he'd reached up with the intention of wiping it away. He looked as though he might topple from the chair. I tensed, but did not move toward them. Lisa was unloading the grocery bags and could not see them there. I was hiding her view of the doorway.

Dick stood up to go to him just as Cuddy and I returned to the living room. House's face was ashen and Cuddy turned back to retrieve the morphine we had stashed in the lower part of the cupboard.

She moved quickly back to his side and knelt with her fingers around his wrist. Dick placed his good hand on House's shoulder and squeezed lightly. House, deep in pain, hardly realized they were there. I stood to the side, biting at my lip, stopping only as I remembered what Greg had done to his own by biting down too hard. I needed to straighten up and avoid becoming too emotionally involved. I wasn't needed in there. They had things under control. I returned to the kitchen and fumbled around with the packages of cold cuts and salads we had brought home.

When House was finally medicated and his pain treated, he might join the rest of us after all. Or he might not. It depended on Lisa's skills as a doctor.

I needed Greg's large stainless steel platter with the flowered engravings that he kept on the top shelf of the cupboard. His mother had given it to him one year, and the only time he ever used it was when she visited. The rest of the time, he kept it hidden out of sight. I grabbed the utility step stool and moved it in front of the row of drawers, climbed up onto the cabinet surface, and stretched to my limits to grasp the edge of the big platter.

My moccasin slipped in a smear of something on the counter. I tried to catch myself on the edge of the top shelf, to no avail. My balance fled immediately, and I went down like a dislodged boulder from the edge of a creek bed. In my panic to grab at something to stop my fall, I dislodged the platter from its perch, and it went end over end to land with a metallic crash on the floor. I hit every shelf with my elbows and arms on the way down, knocked over the step stool and landed on the kitchen floor on the middle of my back.

In the living room, it must have sounded like the proverbial bull in a China shop. Even Foley operators on a movie set couldn't have done it any better than that. It sounded like a roomful of glassware had been dumped out of a second story window onto a sidewalk.

The breath was knocked out of me, and the first sound out of my mouth was a heavy groan. I looked up to see three frightened faces hovering over me. The first one to drop by my side was House. House … whose leg had been going into spasm … and who should be knocked out with morphine right about now.

He tossed the cane and slammed down beside me on his knees. I was trying to kick the stool off me and sit up, but he pressed down hard on my shoulders and would not allow me to move. His face was a hard and twisted mask of fear. "Don't move!" He barked at me. He reached up to Cuddy and said sharply: "Penlight!" He kept one on the back of the counter and she thrust it into his hand like a scalpel.

He was pressing my head back again as I tried to get the leverage to sit up. My head hit the floor with a soft thud, because he would not allow me to attempt to do otherwise. "Don't!" He said. "Don't move your head!"

I stopped struggling and sighed in resignation. He wasn't going to give up until he'd finished making sure there was nothing serious wrong with me, and I knew enough not to try to tell him he was wasting his time. He was frightened for me, and trying to hide it, so I let him. I remained quiet while he asked a series of silly questions. But when he decided to stabilize my neck, I drew the line.

"House! I'm all right! I didn't hit my head … at least not until you hit it for me! And I didn't lose consciousness. Will you _please_ let me up?"

He frowned, but removed his hands from my shoulders. He checked my pupils with the penlight and manipulated my neck yet again, then cautiously withdrew. "You were lucky," he grumbled.

He pulled himself upward with clumsy grace on the edge of the counter, while both Cuddy and Dickinson reached out their hands to assist me to my feet.

Greg was still staring at me, still not satisfied. He had that sad, worried look on his face that I'd always found so endearing. When he saw me smiling at him, he quickly sobered and pulled his normal scowl back over his features with effort. None of us must ever realize for a moment that he … cared!

"Will everyone just quit fussing please? I'm fine. Just feeling foolish." I smiled rather sheepishly and turned to Cuddy. "I was trying to reach the big platter. And I thought you were using the morphine because House was …" I stared at him, still standing there propped up by the counter. "Weren't you spasming?"

He looked down at his leg, and we watched him staring at it in puzzlement. "Medical instinct," he grumbled firmly. "Or adrenaline. Spasm must have been a false alarm." His last sentence seemed to hold a touch of desperation. He wiped his mouth again … and his fingers came back smeared with his own blood.

I stood slowly and straightened completely, reached out my hand and placed it on his rigid shoulder. He leaned into me for just a moment before he realized what he was doing and withdrew abruptly.

"Come on, people … you've still got money in your pockets. Until it's all in mine, this game isn't over!" He walked into the living room, leaving the rest of us looking at each other with sadness in our eyes.

Dick looked from one of us to the other. He pointed to Cuddy, then to me. Softly, he said: "One of you get that dose of morphine and keep it handy."

Before we could say anything else, Dick had turned on his heel, drew a smile of confidence across his face and followed House to the poker table.

His dark eyes met and held Greg's blue ones as Cuddy and I resumed our places.

"Your deal? Or mine?"

Oooo0oooO

231


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"End Game"

When Cuddy and I got back to the living room with the big platter laden with party goodies, we weren't surprised at all to see only Dick still seated at the table. House was up and pacing. Actually, he was doing a great job of pretending he was alone in the room. We put the food on the side table against the wall, along with plates, cutlery and napkins and took our places silently. When he saw us sit down, House returned to his place also, smiling politely.

"What took you two so long? Didn't you get to make out on your way back from the deli?"

I stared at him and fingered the two vials of morphine, safe in the pocket of my jeans. "Yeah, that was it. Had to finish what we started."

Cuddy dealt the cards and Dick glanced across the table at House. "How's the leg now?" He asked.

Greg looked away and turned deliberately in my direction. His lip curled back as he asked me: "Correct me if I'm wrong … but don't psychologists have "PhDs" after their names? Isn't the 'MD' reserved for people who've actually attended medical school?" He ignored my scowl and went on. "Cause it makes me really nervous when people who don't rate the 'MD' start asking medical-type questions."

I looked hard at him. "How's the leg, House?"

"Now see … that's different." He smiled condescendingly at Dickinson. "A real doctor, asking a doctor-type question about a physical problem. That's a whole 'nother ballgame."

"So answer the question!" I kept my voice low, but I was biding no nonsense.

"Just fine, Jimmy Boy … A-One. Peachy keen!" He said expansively. "Hey! Look at these cards! I'm in!" He slid a stack of chips to the center of the table, and then watched the rest of us as we studied our cards.

Cuddy folded early in the hand. I was watching Greg. Dick had already raised once, and I called. House had a pair of nines showing. Dick had a Jack and Queen of Diamonds. House raised and looked curiously at Dick, who'd just been dealt the eight of Hearts. Dick smiled, looked at no one, and raised again.

Suddenly I realized that it wasn't about the cards anymore. I folded and sat back in my chair, watching the two men who were closely watching each other. When the seventh card was dealt, House's "up" cards were the nines, a deuce and a Jack. Dick got an eight, Jack, Queen and a five … and he raised. So did House. Dick looked at his hole cards for a full thirty seconds, calculating, his face a careful blank. Suddenly he looked up.

"Fold."

Greg grinned and scooped up the pot. "A pair of nines! A lousy pair of nines! I psyched out the shrink! Too cool," he crowed.

"Time for a break," Cuddy said. "Let's eat, guys." She led the way to the side table and placed a few morsels of food on her plate. "Drinks are in the kitchen … help yourselves."

They busied themselves with the food and I took a few moments to clear off the table. Lifting the edges of Dick's cards surreptitiously, I stared at the hand he'd been holding. A straight!

_Damn! This game has gone from poker to something else entirely._

Greg was in a good mood after his "win", so while everyone settled down with plates of food, he turned on the charm again with Dick. He told a couple of his best clinic stories and then asked Dick about his "line of work".

"Anything interesting ever happen on that couch of yours?"

"Nothing like the things you see, I'm sure. But occasionally I get the satisfaction of helping to guide a patient through a rough spot, and see them come out of it stronger and more able to help themselves."

"Sounds as exciting as full-time clinic duty." House yawned theatrically.

"I suppose the degree of excitement is relative," Dick responded calmly. "For example, I found it quite exciting when you were able to break that painful spasm so quickly."

Greg's head came up abruptly; momentarily nonplussed by the comment, but any snarky return was interrupted by Cuddy, who returned to the table with a drink in her hand.

Dick wasn't ready to let it go, and House glared at him when he continued to speak in a slow, easy tone. "It was fascinating that your concern for James could override such severe pain …"

Tight lipped, House's voice was brittle. "I thought I explained that."

"Well, you did mention a few possible theories," Dick conceded. "Let's examine them, shall we?"

"Go for it!" The challenge was unmistakable, and House's eyes hardened further with every second he stared at Dick's serene face.

"I believe the first thing you suggested was that you were acting on medical instinct. If a shop clerk fell off a little step stool without loss of consciousness, you wouldn't have given the clerk a second glance. We knew James hadn't been knocked out when he fell. We heard him groan immediately after the crash, and he spoke lucidly, and he was fully functional and able to move. So … even you discarded that theory easily."

Greg nodded slightly; still skeptical, still staring intently at Dick.

"Then you shifted the cause to adrenaline. That's a pretty sound supposition … except for one thing: had that been the cause, your pain would have returned the moment the perceived crisis passed and the adrenaline dissipated from your system. Yet, you were fine, weren't you?"

Greg didn't bother to make any attempt to answer the question. He sat very still, waiting for Dick to continue. His only movement, we all noticed, was that his left hand had begun to rub gently at the left thigh. The motion of his arm was rhythmic and light, and it looked as though he might be completely unaware he was doing it.

We waited.

"And your final rationale, the one you decided to go with … false alarm." Dick stopped speaking and watched silently for a few moments. Greg's massage of the thigh muscle had become slightly more rapid. Dick let his silence stretch out until he saw Greg's hand slow, and watched the long fingers begin to press deeper into the quadriceps. He swung around in his chair and turned to face me.

"During your call to me a couple of days ago," he said conversationally, "didn't you tell me that Dr. House had had another 'false alarm' with his left leg?"

I was looking at the lines of discomfort deepening across Greg's face as Dick spoke. I could see the rigidity of the small muscles around his mouth and eyes as they began to stretch and harden. He was clearly in distress, no longer hearing much of anything that was being said. It was becoming difficult to watch, and I didn't want to be a part of it. I started to shake my head in denial, but Dick was waiting for an answer.

Finally: "Yes. House said it was a false alarm; it could have been."

Under the table, Lisa Cuddy squeezed my hand. As I looked at her, her eyes told me I must be totally honest. This was specifically the kind of help we had asked Dick Dickinson to provide. Our own efforts had been sadly lacking, and we needed the kind of support only a seasoned professional could offer. I could see that Cuddy truly felt for me, and for Greg, and that only my complete honesty right that minute could provide the kind of help Greg really needed.

I took a deep breath. "It could have been. But I don't think it was." I looked across at Greg, and he was refusing to meet my eyes.

"How did that spasm end?" Dick asked softly.

I hung my head. Here it was. Finally turned belly up in the cold light of day. "I'd … gotten very upset. It wasn't going too well. I had to leave the room. The spasm was beginning to peak when I got out of there … but I had to. I had to get away and calm down. He followed me into the kitchen, and I guess I was in pretty bad shape at that point. He … uhmm … took care of me. And then he took care of himself.

"When I recovered and went to find him, I expected that he'd be in a lot of pain. But when I got to his room and questioned him, he told me it was a … false alarm." I stopped talking and looked down. Then I looked up at Greg and tried to send an apology with my eyes. He turned his head away from me.

We saw him become aware of what he was doing to his thigh. We watched as he tried to still his hand and shift uncomfortably in the chair. We heard him gasp involuntarily and look around in defiance. He clamped his hand back over the muscle. "Still don't get your point," he said roughly to Dick. "Spasm ended. That's a good thing. Doesn't matter why it stopped …"

"Oh, but I disagree. It matters very much." The tone of Dick's voice turned to gentle teasing, taunting. "Because now we know how to fix the problem. How to cure you, so-to-speak."

The pain in House's leg, by that time, had reached the point where he could no longer hide his discomfort. He was using both hands to try to relieve it, to soothe the clenching knot of pain. "A cure. Do tell!" He rasped. But the lingering undercurrent of sarcasm was clearly forced.

We waited.

Dick continued. The soft tone of his voice never wavered. "Sure … but it doesn't bode well for your friends, I'm afraid. Seems this problem doesn't occur until your mind has some free time. None of your attacks have happened when you were wrapped up in a video game. Nor did tonight's incidents happen when you were actually playing cards. James tells me you are all about the puzzle. But games end. Medical cases get solved. And then … where are you? It's just you and your pain again. So you focus on that. Get angry at it … keeps your brain busy so you don't have to deal with anything else, until the next puzzle comes along. And the pain recedes … for a little while."

I watched them become simpatico. House was beginning to lean in Dick's direction. He didn't even realize it. Dick was getting through. Greg was doubled over the leg. His breathing was becoming ragged, and he was pale, begging to break out in a sweat.

I removed the meds from my pocket, started to stand. Cuddy grabbed my arm and shook her head. She wouldn't let go of my arm, and her look was stern. For a second, she was my boss again. I sighed and settled back down.

"So this is what we have to do …" Dick resumed talking again. Patiently. Gently. He was seeing the agony House was experiencing, and from the look on his kind face, we all knew he had vast experience with similar pain. We could see it as it sparked out of his sad eyes. He knew exactly what Greg was going through at that moment.

He let his voice turn mocking, almost cruel, although the timbre never changed. "We just have to keep James in some sort of constant danger. Or Lisa. You care about her enough now that danger to her should be just as effective.

He turned his attention to us and resumed. "James, you're gonna need to come down with some long-term illness, preferably life-threatening. Lisa … maybe a serious traffic accident would do the trick with you.

"Then _you _…" He turned back to House, whose face was drained of all color and his focus barely intact. Dick's voice rose a few decibels. "You won't ever have to acknowledge that the pain is an integral part of who you are. Hell … you won't even have to admit that you care for these two people as much as … or more than … your pain and your puzzles. You can tell everybody … and tell yourself … that you're simply doing your job!"

Dick turned deliberately away from House's agony and trained his eyes on the two of us. "So you see, guys, it's really quite simple. Dr. House will never have to admit to the psychosomatic nature of his illness as long as one of you is in a constant state of peril." He smiled coldly. "And you're both so overprotective of him that I'm certain that you'll gladly make that sacrifice."

A growling sound erupted suddenly from House as he half-rose from his chair. "Leave them out of it!" He gasped. He made a half-hearted lunge toward Dick, but his legs buckled and he melted slowly downward into a heap on the floor.

Lisa and I leapt to his side immediately. I prepared to inject the morphine into the port of the PICC line, but forced myself to look up at Dick first. Dickinson nodded sadly, and I pushed the medication while Cuddy monitored Greg's pulse and respirations.

House neither spoke, nor opened his eyes.

Ten long minutes later, Cuddy rose from his side, left the room and returned momentarily

with the wheelchair. In the meantime, House had returned to normal comfort levels, and was calming down. He hadn't tried to speak yet, but his eyes were open. He looked thoughtfully at Dick, who nodded with a half-smile, then gravely did the same to Cuddy and me.

"Let's get you to bed now," I said gently.

He allowed the three of us to lift him bodily into the chair. Dick accompanied us to the bedroom, trailing silently behind while we got Greg settled as comfortably as possible against all his pillows, and then drew the blanket up over his legs.

I thanked Dick, and told him we had it from there.

House had other ideas. "No," he said quietly. His strength was waning.

Lisa and I waited.

"Wilson … Cuddy … outa here please. Even a 'fake' doctor can help me get settled into bed now." He looked at Dickinson with a different set to his features. The measured tone of his voice didn't change. "The Incredible Shrinking Dick needs to do a little more shrinking … maybe.

"Scram, Jimmy!"

His eyes were calm. Calmer than I'd seen them in weeks!

I looked from him to Dick, and back again.

Then I left the room and closed the door carefully behind me.

Oooo0oooO

239


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"The Incredible Shrinking Dick Rides Again"

Lisa Cuddy and I sat close together on the couch.

Across from us the poker table, abandoned with cards and chips still scattered on its surface, mocked us from the shadows, now that the lights were off. Behind it, the little table against the wall by the fireplace stood as we'd left it, with food from our hastily arranged buffet in dire need of refrigeration, or it would be long putrefied before it ever reached the garbage can.

The lamp atop the baby grand piano cast a dim light across the open keyboard, and all the way across the room, glancing off pieces of small electronic gaming components scattered on the coffee table.

Books stashed haphazardly in every bookcase and piled on every flat surface nearby, spoke of his prodigious curiosity and awesome intelligence. An expansive stereo system and vintage record album collection hinted at his eclectic tastes in music. A Fender Stratocaster and a large acoustical guitar hanging on the wall shouted his musical talent to the room itself.

Other, smaller, obscure mementoes of a man's solitary world, displayed his odd tastes in small cultural icons. Everything around us called his name, and painted an earth-tone mural that told a fascinating tale about the center of Gregory House's existence, and his unique life.

I was still worried about Greg, and his struggle to cope with denial, and in my own sense of betrayal of him regarding his jealously guarded privacy.

I was also worried about Dick, and about the position into which I had placed him, summoning him all the way to New Jersey on some altruistic fool's errand. He'd come to this session cold, on the pretense of a damned poker game, having never met Greg, nor having any idea what he was like to be around, other than my own disjointed personal observations. It had been something like trying to explain a tornado to the evening breeze:

The wind in a tornado, you see, is a little stronger … and it may try to blow you away … 

And now the breeze and the tornado were both back there in Greg's bedroom. Holed up together like two outlaws in a mountain cabin … and we the posse, hiding in the rocks and bushes below, waiting for something to happen …

When I sighed theatrically and lowered my head into my hands, Lisa leaned against me and rested an arm across my shoulders, drawing me close into the warmth of her tiny body. And she said: "You know, I feel like we're the parents of a child who's about to come out of potentially life-saving surgery."

I choked on the strangled laugh that squeaked out of me at that statement. "You're not far wrong about that, I guess," I admitted. "What's going on in there could well be life-altering for him." I raised my head to look at her, and for the first time, took notice that this woman who'd been so concerned with comforting me, had tears in her own eyes that matched mine. "I'm sorry," I said. "This is just as hard on you …"

"It was difficult to watch it happen," she admitted. "House is … _House!_ It's a shock, I guess, to be reminded that he's just as human and just as susceptible to hurt as the rest of us."

"I know. While that was happening, I kept trying to remind myself that Dick was just doing what House does to his own patients on a regular basis. No matter how cruel it seems, he believes the end justifies the means." I sighed deeply again and tried to look at Cuddy without betraying the pain in my soul. "All Dick did was pull a 'House' on House. So why does it hurt so much?"

Cuddy smiled at me, pretending to ignore my obvious feelings by squeezing my opposite shoulder between her fingers. "That's easy. We care about patients, but it's abstract … a _removed_ kind of caring … something that we professionals do in order to maintain our equilibrium. With him, our caring is tangible. It's real … and it hurts. We're deeply invested in his recovery and in his well-being. That's why we must let Dr. Dickinson handle this. As much as we want to, we can't do anything to help House right now."

I looked back toward the bedroom as she spoke, knowing the old waterworks were ready to spill over again. "Do you think he's okay?"

Cuddy chuckled low in her throat. "Who?" She asked wryly. "House? Or Dickinson?"

I smiled. Her words had helped the spillage to dry up again.

_Thanks, Lisa! _

"Point taken. It's just that sometimes I worry about him … House, I mean. Not Dick! Dick's always been a country unto himself! But for all House's bluster … all his professed hatred of emotion … sometimes he just seems so vulnerable … so …"

"'Innocent' …" Cuddy finished the thought for me. "I understand what you mean. He spends so much time fitting everything neatly into intellectual boxes, and then, when something doesn't fit in the box, he doesn't know how to handle it … and he's surprised. It's almost like …" She paused to think for a moment. "It's like he doesn't know how to protect himself, so he gets hurt."

"Yeah. Then he hides behind sarcasm and anger, tries to divert attention away from it. Then, once he has you distracted, he doesn't have to acknowledge his feelings. So we all end up thinking of him as a cold-hearted bastard. What's sad is, he chalks that up as a win."

I shook my head.

Cuddy was quick with reassurances. "But now he's busted, you know. At least, with us! Maybe … someday … some of the trust he's finally given to us may spill over to the rest of the human race."

I laughed, feeling suddenly restless, entertaining a silly mind picture that wandered inadvertently into my head. I got up from the couch, out from under from Lisa's warm hand, and wandered over to the front window, pretending to search around out there …

"What are you doing?" Cuddy was puzzled.

"Looking for flying pigs … what else?"

Cuddy laughed too. "Got it. Okay, you're probably right. Not likely. So, let's just be grateful that we've gotten as far as we have with him. And let's trust that Dickinson will be able to take him the rest of the way."

I straightened from the window. "How'd ya like some coffee?"

"Sounds good."

We sat around for an hour or more, listening to the quiet buzz of intermittent conversation drifting back from the bedroom down the hall … and trying to talk about anything and everything except what might be going on in there.

We weren't very successful in that area though … so when the door finally opened and we heard footsteps approaching through the hallway … we both stood up too quickly, too anxiously … and I'm sure we were both thinking of Cuddy's words earlier … about overwrought parents in a surgical waiting room …

Dick walked into the living room, and the dim light glinted off the tired smile on his face as he looked appraisingly at the two of us. "Is that coffee? Smells good."

I poured him a mug full gratefully, and pressed it into his hand. We both regarded him apprehensively.

He took a long swallow, closed his eyes blissfully for a moment, and finally spoke. "He's … okay. Fascinating man!" He turned to me with twinkling eyes. "He says to tell you I'm better than Dr. Phil, and I'd even give Oprah a run for her money. He also requests that you find him a Nerf ball before our next session." Dick pulled a face and gave me a puzzled smile. "Care to translate all that?"

I smiled back. Lisa looked doubtful.

"Well, the good news … the _great_ news … is there's gonna _be_ a next session. The bad news is … you better get yourself a thesaurus and learn a few new words for 'feelings', or you're gonna be spending a lot of time dodging a Nerf ball!"

Dick still looked a little confused, but he smiled gamely and widened his eyes in speculation. "All right, will do. Thanks for the warning. I think!"

I put my mug down on the coffee table and turned in the direction of the bedroom. "I'm gonna go back and check on him …"

"No!" Dick said quickly. "He … uh … specifically requested Lisa …"

I frowned and paused, feeling a little hurt. But then my smile returned as Dick turned to Cuddy and continued. "He said to tell you he's willing to be a guinea pig tonight for what he termed your 'new-age relaxation garbage' … but it would cost you six clinic hours. Does that make any sense to you?"

Cuddy grinned and shook her head. "I'm afraid it makes perfect sense," she said. She turned on her heel and started for the bedroom.

"Wait!" Dick said. "I might be a fake doctor, but I think the morphine's wearing off about now. He seems a little restless. I'm sure in Dr. House's book, this is practicing medicine without a license, but I'd bet my own license … even if I _did_ fish it out of a Cracker Jack box, according to him … that he could also use a breathing treatment."

"I'll take care of it," Cuddy told him. "As far as the restlessness, it's way past time for his hydrocodone, so I'm sure he's experiencing some discomfort. And I won't tell him it was you suggested the aerosol …" She left to gather the supplies.

Dick and I went over to the couch and sat down, sipping at fresh coffee refills. "I know you can't tell me what went on back there, Dick, but I have to ask … is he gonna be okay?"

"Actually, he told me to let you know exactly what went on. Said you two have a deal: no secrets. But I think that right now, the most important thing for you to know is that he's embarrassed … worried about seeing you. He's afraid you'll think he's weak."

"He _told_ you that?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Well, no … not precisely. What he said was: 'Jimmy's gonna have a field day with this. He'll hold it over my head until I start washing the dishes! Which means I'll be hearing about it for _years!' _And he didn't exactly say it directly to me. It looked as though he was talking to the ceiling …"

"Yeah, he does share some of his deepest feelings and insights with that ceiling. With _all_ the ceilings! I'm well acquainted with their conversations." I grinned and shook my head in fond recall. Or not so fond …take your pick.

We were still laughing together when Lisa came walking into the room. "He's sleeping like a baby back there," she said with a smile of relief. "And I do mean 'like a baby.' He's completely relaxed, and it looks like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders tonight."

I looked across at Dick Dickinson. "Thank you. And don't worry about House's little talk with the plaster. When I get finished telling him how much I admire him … all spoken in code, of course, and probably to his confidant, the ceiling, as well … his ego'll be so big, he'll need a whole other room to put it in!"

Dick rolled his eyes, laughing, nodding his head in total agreement. He looked at us slyly. "So then you'll have to bring back 'The Incredible Shrinking Dick' to bring it down to size!"

We groaned and hid our heads in our hands for a moment, and then the three of us laughed together, helplessly.

I couldn't help wondering what might be next in store for that extraordinary, contradictory creature in the room at the end of the hall …

Oooo0oooO

_HouseHHH_

244


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

"Gifts Far Beyond Those of Mortal Men …"

The following week brought monumental changes for all of us:

House was on the mend, even though there had been a few setbacks along the way. After his initial session with Dick, he continued to have muscle spasms in the good leg, and I still had to use morphine a few times to control the pain he was experiencing. It wasn't pleasant, and he seemed embarrassed by its persistence, although he said nothing. But he no longer made an effort to push me away when his discomfort began to build.

I stayed as close to his side as he could allow, and massaged the cramped thigh for him as best I could. I could also sense his eyes upon me while I worked the tense muscles, but did not let on that I was very aware in every nerve fiber of my being, that his intense scrutiny was pinning me in place where I sat.

But I knew he knew I knew … if you catch my meaning …

Every other day, Dick Dickinson turned up at the apartment for another session behind closed doors. We had not requested it. He wanted to do it. His dedication was above and beyond the call of duty, and both Cuddy and I were beginning to realize that the two of them were enjoying a connection built on mutual respect and mutual understanding. We welcomed it, and encouraged their time together.

House and Dickinson were not only working on House's pain and acceptance issues. The thing that they shared in common helped cement their growing rapport. I had a feeling that Dick's disabled hand and Greg's crippled leg were being verbally abused in an increasingly sarcastic manner, right along with their discussions of the mind's astounding ability to completely sidetrack reality when it came to avoiding the truth.

As the week progressed, I knew I was right. It was so great to hear House's booming, deep-voiced laughter again, the commodity I had missed for so long that I couldn't even remember when I'd last heard it. Even the fact that it was coming to me muffled from the confines of the bedroom did nothing to quell my delight about the fact that it was _there!_

After every session, Dick would leave Greg mentally and physically exhausted and sleeping, and leave on silent feet, closing the door softly behind him. He would then amble out to the kitchen for coffee, which I always kept brewing in the French press. If Cuddy happened to be there, she would join us. If not, then just the two of us discussed the session. Dick told me that Greg always insisted I be kept appraised of his progress … or lack thereof, as the case might be.

I remember sitting and laughing with him as he related their "can-you-top-this' stories at the end of their sessions, and the laughs they generated with the distracting silliness.

Dick would tell House that his "permanent" right fist was very good for stomping grapes if he didn't feel like taking his shoes and socks off … except that a fist that stayed purple for a couple of days sometimes made his clients look at him funny …

And Greg would come back with something like: "If I decided to get my leg amputated and have one of those fancy prosthetics fitted, I could probably use the part they sawed off for a Jai Alai cesta! And none of my patients would ever come near me again. Wow! What a concept!" Greg and his dark sense of humor!

On Tuesday evening, we finally put in a call to the diagnostics office to tell House's team that it was he who had now come down with the flu. He was in less than a stellar mood, but I didn't press him for reasons. I would talk to whoever answered the phone and convey the "bad" news. I hoped Chase answered the phone. Or Foreman. Or for that matter, the janitor!

House glared at me and said he hoped it was Cameron who answered. Just what I needed! He said: "You've been telling me for years that I'm too rough on little 'Starry Eyes' … and it'll serve you right, having to deal with her 'nurture-poor-wounded-House' mode. Just stand back when you tell her how sick I am … so you don't get spattered …"

"H-huh??" I stammered.

"Cameron's bleeding heart! Makes a mess when it really gets pumping." He leaned back on the couch with a satisfied smirk while I punched in the hospital's number. I rolled my eyes and pretended to not pay any attention to him.

"Ahh … hi Dr. Cameron, how are you?" I scowled across at House and deliberately turned my back on his laughing eyes and evil grin. "I'm feeling a lot better, thanks. Almost human again! Yeah … we miss you too. Can't wait to get back there. But I'm afraid it's not gonna happen for awhile yet … seems his cold-hearted meanness isn't as protective against the flu virus as he claimed it was …"

I chanced a look across the room and almost lost it when I saw him deliberately sticking out his tongue at me. "Yeah, he's got it, all right. It's just started, so he's blaming it on food poisoning … my cooking, I guess."

I stood listening with the phone held away from my ear for quite some time while she babbled away about "… poor House!" And I couldn't help it … I rolled my eyes more than once while Greg held his hand over his mouth to keep from chuckling out loud.

Damn him!

"No, Cameron, I don't think Cuddy will make an exception just because it's House. No … not even if you wore isolation gear."

Greg laughed at that, and I walked across the room, grabbed a pillow and jammed it in his face. "Naw … he's retching … trying not to throw up. But you know him … doesn't trust anybody but me to clean up after him."

I tossed a second pillow when it looked as though he would choke himself trying to keep a straight face. "Check on him? Why? He'd only throw me out. He'd say it's just more Wilson-induced food poisoning … gone by tomorrow. You know the drill. When he wakes up tomorrow with a spiky fever, he'll blame that on me too … for letting my germs replicate in his apartment! You know him … not a sympathetic bone in his body."

By this time, I was enjoying myself listening to Cam's "poor baby" moaning, and ducking the pillows House was throwing back at me from the couch.

"You know me better than that. Would I treat him the way he's treated me these past few weeks?"

_Oh sure … bet your bottom dollar I would!_

I listened again, patiently, I thought, and finally sighed mightily into her ear. "Look, I don't know how much clearer I can make this. The man doesn't even trust me to take his temp. He'll want to start his own IV … if it comes to that. House trusts _House!_ Period! My biggest job this coming week will be vomit patrol. So thank your lucky stars Cuddy has us quarantined. Don't worry … I won't let him die. Why would I want to deprive the world of his brand of misery?"

This time the pillow hit me square in the middle of my forehead. "Gotta go, Cameron. The flu must really be setting in. His sense of humor seems to have bit the dust."

I stuck my tongue out at him when I hung up the phone, then laughed at his "attack" of playfulness.

"That was unnecessary," I told him, still laughing. "I was just keeping you in character so she doesn't show up here with Child Protective Services, claiming I was neglecting you. Could happen! The kids just finished up a case, got too much time on their hands. I think she was hoping to make _you_ their next project."

He looked at me from beneath shaggy brows. "Keeping busy is good," he muttered.   
"They should find something to do."

"Like your clinic hours, maybe?"

House had sobered fast, and it suddenly made me uneasy. I asked him if he'd like to talk. His mood had been interrupted only momentarily by the short, silly interval with Cameron on the phone. Now he was back to seriousness. His session with Dick earlier seemed to have put him in an introspective mood. They'd discussed coping mechanisms, and the usual banter at the end had been missing.

"Dick says I've got to find ways to stay occupied when I don't have a case. He says I think the pain's safer than anything else …"

"I know," I answered quietly, and I wasn't sure I liked where this was going. "He told me about it. Have you given any thought to … actually interacting with … other people? Might not be as … pardon the expression … 'painful' … as you think."

"I'm no good at that." He began to run the palm of his hand over the left thigh again, in another of his coping mechanisms. I hoped it was just a lingering habit by this late date, and I decided not to call attention to it.

"You _could_ practice it … beginning with your team. Get to know them as people instead of pieces of diagnostic equipment who just happen to breathe. They're pretty interesting, you know."

"If I start to do that, they'll think there's something wrong with me."

I watched him shift position on the couch, gingerly, moving his weight off the left leg. It was indeed hurting him. The mindless rubbing of the muscle intensified.

I smiled and tried to keep him from knowing I was worried. "They _already_ think there's something wrong with you. This'll just be something new to add to the list. Shouldn't be a problem." I wondered if I should draw his attention to what he was doing to his leg.

"By the time we go back, we'll have been gone over a month. What's everyone gonna think?" As I watched, he began pressing deeply into the quad with stiffened fingers. Then he looked down at his hand, and the realization settled in. With a determined grunt, he shook his head and lifted his hand away from the leg.

"Since when have you thought about what _anyone _else thought? Let alone _everyone_ else?"

"You're right." His fingers stole back to the spasming muscle. "I don't care. Doesn't matter. So what, right?" By that time, both hands had gone to the quadriceps. He didn't acknowledge it to me, and I wasn't sure how to handle it.

"No, House … it _does_ matter. Most of us care what other people think of us. If nothing else, it helps temper our behavior and make it fit into society's norms. Whatever those are …" I smiled faintly.

Then he was bending his upper body over his legs, and I heard the sharp intake of breath that told me I'd let it go on far too long. My instinct told me, however, that I must not interfere this time. This time it is _his _call all the way. Biting my lip, I said nothing. I let him go.

He looked up at me with dark, piercing, pain-filled eyes. Questioning. Why had I said nothing? I met his gaze, questioning as well.

"Gonna go get a shower …"

I nodded, closed my eyes briefly. It took every shred of self-control I possessed not to go to him. Help him. Hold him. Offer him my promised "whatever-you-need" … kind of assistance.

Finally, I removed the tubing from the PICC port. I stood back. He was on his own. I didn't following his halting progress out of the room. I had to trust that the sessions with Dick were helping him as much as Dick said they were. I had to trust in the fact that everything Cuddy and I tried to do was making a difference. I had to trust _House!_

I stayed on the couch, in the spot he had vacated. My fists were clenched, but I hardly noticed. This was a turning point. I knew it. I watched the dark space back the hallway where he had disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. The steady thump of the cane on the hard wooden flooring stopped.

Then the call came. Quiet. Resigned. "Jimmy … need some help here …"

I began to breathe again, and knew that things would be okay. Dick had been right.

I gave Greg a reassuring smile when I went back there with the wheelchair. How amazing it was how far we'd come in just those few weeks. It had been difficult and painful for all of us, but it had finally paid off … better than I could have hoped.

It was a little sad though that only Cuddy and I would probably ever be privileged to see this gentler side of Greg House … but I recognized it for what it was. An honor!

Hope I remember that the next time he pisses me off! I'd hate to have to kill him after all this work!

When I'd settled him into bed and administered the morphine, both of us sat still and looked at each other while the medication took effect. House spoke first. "I should'a been able to talk myself out of that one. Shouldn't have needed the med."

I knew that whatever I said then would matter. I sat down on the side of the bed next to him. I went through the motions of taking his pulse, but I didn't remove my hand from where it encircled his thin wrist when I finished counting. "All in good time," I told him. "Changes take time. Results take longer. You can't have everything five minutes ago. The bad stuff came on gradually, and that's how it'll fade away. Clichéd as it is, if something's worth having, it's worth waiting for. Believe me, this is worth it. Just maybe … you're worth it too. Maybe. Give it the time it needs. You won't be waiting alone."

I hoped I'd chosen the right words.

He smiled at me faintly, and I saw some of the tension and pain fall away from his features. The blue eyes softened. The words had been right. "Hey! I thought _I_ was the big brother in this outfit. I'm supposed to be the one to give you all this sound, philosophical advice. You're _way_ too young to make this much sense!"

I smiled back, squeezed his wrist a little, then let go and withdrew. I was deeply touched that he acknowledged the bond between us. But my usual waterworks had deserted me. I no longer pitied him, felt sorry for him, or needed to shore him up constantly any longer. He was growing. Assuming a new maturity. We both were.

At least until the next time one of us was hurting too badly to suck it up alone.

"Out of the mouths of babes comes wisdom, I'm told …" I teased him.

He tilted his head at me in that way he has, and wrinkled up his nose disdainfully. "Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jimmy … but you do _so_ not qualify as a 'babe'!"

_Yeah … well … not in the way you mean it, smart-alec!_

I laughed and got up to turn out the light. "Maybe not. But if you'd let me have my blow-dryer, I _could_ be!" I winked and turned away from the door.

There was gonna be plenty of time in the next two weeks for Dick to help him work on the coping mechanisms … and time enough for House's adopted family to learn to reinforce it all. And trust. And love.

I walked down the hallway to the living room feeling good, still smiling to myself. Then I stopped dead in my tracks to listen.

_What??_

Something soft and sibilant. Coming from his bedroom.

He was laughing …

Oooo0oooO

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	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

"Some Days Seem Just Like All the Others, Except When They're Not!"

_Author's Note: Well, guys, this is the swan song, so-to-speak. KidsNurse finished "Devil is in the Details" a few days ago. And this is the end of "Analysis Paralysis". It's been a long journey for House and Wilson and Cuddy as they passed by my doorstep on their way to a new beginning. If I've managed to entertain a few of you along the way, I am satisfied with that. I thank every one of you for the great reviews, and I hope we meet up again sometime. I am indebted to David Shore for his vision, and for the characters we have come to love like family. This has been a pleasure, and I thank you. Bets;)_

Oooo0oooO

"House! Breakfast!"

Ye Gods! It seems as though I never get finished yelling at him. This morning was our first day back to work after our devastating bouts with "influenza", and I was doing my best not to look entirely like the rosy picture of health I actually was. I didn't blow-dry my hair this morning, and I didn't use the wrinkle-buster on my slacks. I didn't want to be too obvious, but there needed to be at least a _little_ bit of residual suffering on my face when I finally showed up for work after a whole month!

Greg was a little antsy this morning as well, but I knew he'd never admit it even if he were jumping out of his skin. His left leg was still much too weak. All those spasms over that stretch of time had left it less than full strength, and he needed it to compensate for the crippled one. He was a little afraid it might give out on him when he least expected it, so he was being extremely cautious. I could understand his fears. To land unceremoniously on the floor _again_ would just about tear it! And God forbid! Not on his first day back at work!

I stood in front of the stove making his favorites … the macadamia pancakes he loved … but I could see the uncertainty hidden deep in his eyes. When he walked slowly into the kitchen, I looked him over and nodded encouragingly. He still looked a little rough: a little pale, a lot underweight, and somewhat drawn about the face. In truth, he looked as though he'd just gotten over a nasty bout with the flu. His usual mode of "living under a bridge" look was padded with enough layers to hide the gauntness and the ports of the PICC line he still carried. He would need another two weeks of the nightly TPN to help boost his energy level and keep his weight gain heading upward a little more rapidly.

He sat down at the table and picked up the mug of coffee I'd poured for him. "Are those little slices of heaven that I smell?"

"I said, "You bet!" Or something like that. I put his plate in front of him, steaming with the fragrance of the plump little pancakes. "I'm reviving an old tradition from my family a lot of years ago. My Mom always made our favorite breakfast on the first day of school."

I watched him dig in with relish, and then I heard a soft knock at the front door. Cuddy? I went to answer it. It was indeed, Cuddy, and I asked why she hadn't used the key House had given her. She told me how much she'd appreciated his trust in giving it to her, but that she had never felt particularly comfortable using it. She was returning it to him, and allowing me to answer the door in the traditional way. I did not question, but led the way back to the kitchen.

Lisa placed the key on the work counter without saying a word, then walked over to the table and sat down next to him. I served her coffee and pancakes, and then stood off to the side with a plate of my own.

I saw her look him over without a word at first. He paid no attention, just kept his attention on his own plate. "Couldn't you have chosen something a little … nicer … for the first day of school? All the other kids will be wearing their nice starched lab coats … and you look a little like a bum …"

House never looked up, but I could see the smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. "You two are just determined to run this whole 'school' thing right into the ground, aren't you? Sooo … in the spirit of the game … I have a note from the doctor, excusing me from clinic duty for another two weeks. And that's on top of what you already promised me, ya know!"

Cuddy looked over at me, eyebrows raised. "He's already snowed Dick? That sure didn't take long."

I shrugged.

House pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Cuddy, still smirking.

"House!"

Oh how familiar that sounded!

"House, this is _your_ signature!" Her voice was a little shrill.

"Aren't I a doctor? Cause if I'm not, then you and Daddy have a nice day at work. Bring me a present when you come home." He continued calmly, forking in the pancakes.

Cuddy glowered at the note. I tried to keep a straight face, but it wasn't easy. "Fine! So you've got … _what? _… a month of no clinic duty now? Guess what! I'm adding these two weeks onto the end of what you already owe me. Which takes us well into the twenty-second century!"

"Works for me," Greg said calmly. He finished his final pancake and placed his fork politely across the edge of his plate. He patted his stomach in contentment. Picked up his coffee mug and drained it. He looked up at me for a moment, and then struggled to his feet with the cane planted firmly by his right foot. "Let's get outa here before she realizes she's stuck with me for eternity."

"No quick escapes from me today, House!" Cuddy told him heatedly. "We're all going in my car. You can't drive, and Wilson's car is still in the shop. Remember? So, unless you want to scribble yourself another official doctor's note, you're restricted from the bike until the PICC line comes out. Looks like you're stuck with me!"

"Fine," he retorted in the spirit of the game, "but in that case, I get to start another tradition. The only one who gets to lay a finger on the music controls in that car is the guy with the cane!"

Cuddy and I did an eye-roll at the same time, and then smiled about it. Just another House-based moan! Actually, we'd both let him get away with almost anything today.

How great it was to see him all the way back!

He picked up his jacket and backpack. Cuddy and I picked up our briefcases and jackets and followed him triumphantly out the door.

We didn't talk much on the way to the hospital. Greg made it pretty much impossible with his choice of music, and the volume at which it was played. Lisa and I let him enjoy it. It was his first taste of freedom in a very long time, and he might as well enjoy it.

We already decided we were going to walk with him to his office. If the leg "went" … either one of them … we intended to be there to keep him upright and off the floor. We went up in the elevator after passing through the lobby without incident … other than long, searching looks from many employees. House stepped out on the diagnostics floor without a backward glance. When he figured out that we were following his slow progress, he turned around to glare.

I had my retort prepared. "Son … please let Mommy and Daddy see you off to your first day of preschool. You _know_ we've earned the pleasure!"

Cuddy jumped eagerly into the game. "And sweetie … remember what you and Mommy talked about. Try not to insult the other kids. Don't steal their food at lunch. Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your _cane_ to yourself! Remember to use your inside voice. And don't pull any of those nice red fire alarms, okay?" She added in a far more subdued voice: "And call us if you need us!"

I whispered at his shoulder, a voice inaudible even to Cuddy. House almost had to read my lips to get it all … but he did. His face softened, and his nod was nearly imperceptible. "Whatever it takes … always …"

For just an instant we locked eyes. Brothers. Strength, gratitude, trust. All there … and in spades. He moved slowly and with effort away from us.

We were in front of his office door.

Foreman, Chase and Cameron were seated in the other room, at the table. Some kind of discussion was in progress. We could hear their voices as Greg opened the door.

Cameron was speaking. "If House would just learn to trust someone besides himself, we could have helped him out. We could have made all this a lot easier on him … and on Wilson too. Would it really have killed him to trust someone?"

Chase was nodding his head, as usual, agreeing with whoever happened to be in the room at the time. But Foreman's head was turned, and he caught the blur of movement. He was the only one not startled out of his wits when the clarion call came from the doorway.

"Good morning people! What've we got?" He went into the room and began shedding backpack and jacket. He turned slightly to wink at Cuddy and me, still standing in the hallway. He smirked, and then unceremoniously shut the door in our faces.

Cuddy continued with me the rest of the way to my office. I pulled my keys from my pocket and inserted the correct one into the door.

_God! It was so good to be back!_

We paused there, looking at one another. Cuddy frowned for a moment before she continued on her way. "Dr. Wilson, don't you ever have times when you'd just like to wring his neck?"

I paused to smile indulgently before opening my door.

"Frequently!"

End

Oooo0oooO

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